


Dead Things

by standinginanicedress



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Probably exactly what you’d expect, black magic, derek is sort of immortal, stiles is a witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 89,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26798113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standinginanicedress/pseuds/standinginanicedress
Summary: Derek blows some more smoke out. He chooses to look at Stiles’ mouth instead of in his eyes, again. “I need you to bring someone back.”“Back.”“From the dead.”“Absolutely not,” Stiles scoffs, shaking his head. “Not for you, not for all the money in the world.”Derek looks at him, just looks. He is not going to accept no for an answer, and Stiles knows it, but it doesn’t matter, because Stiles will not do that. He cannot do that, not again. “Why not for me in specific?”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 220
Kudos: 994





	1. Necromancy for Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> If this reads incredibly similar to other things I’ve done it’s because it sort of is incredibly similar to other things I’ve done. Black magic is rad to write about.

On the first cold night in September, someone breaks the lock on the front door to Stiles’ shop long after close. He’s disinfecting his tarot cards, clearing any and all dust off of the crystal ball, when there’s a smash and a cracking noise that startles him into dropping several of his cards in a cacophony onto the wooden floor underfoot. 

The doorknob rolls toward him, between his feet. Then, his door is opening, and a gigantic shadow figure is hovering in the darkness of the evening. Leaves blow past their feet, as Stiles straightens to his full height, frowning and taking in the scene in front of him. He has half a mind to suspect it to be some sewer dwelling demon come up to harass him into doing magic for them, or something even worse than that – these occurrences are a dime a dozen in Beacon Hills, especially this particular neighborhood, so instead of getting frightened, he is rather incredibly fucking irritated. 

“Knocking is a common practice,” he comments, picking up the cards he had dropped with a huff. When he stands back up all the way, the figure moves into the room, slowly, until they are illuminated by the purple and orange lights Stiles had hung up for ambiance, casting shadows across their face. It’s just enough that Stiles can make out distinct features, an unmistakable black tattoo on a big forearm, dark hair, a frown, a set jaw. 

Stiles blinks in surprise, and then quickly sighs again with a roll of his eyes. “Derek Hale,” he greets, even as the man in question stops when he’s only five steps into the room. He is looking around himself as though he has accidentally stumbled into a hell pit, grimacing and scowling like Stiles is the one who burst in on him and not the other way around. “You must be kidding me.” 

Stiles has never actually met Derek Hale. As a matter of fact, he’s never even encountered the other man in passing, or ever seen him in person. Stiles knows who Derek Hale is only because most people of their particular inclination know who he is – he is sort of legendary as far as the supernatural community around these parts is concerned. He is instantly recognizable, because he emanates werewolf the way perfume can stink up a room, because he has enough bizarre and unfortunate tattoos that they’ve become a calling card, because he is huge and scary and mean. 

His claim to fame is being ultimately unkillable. Many have tried. Stiles has heard about it. 

Derek Hale does not seem to be kidding him. He stands there, unhappy and big, and looks about ten seconds from reaching out to snap Stiles’ neck with a flick of his wrist. Christ, he may be here to do just that, maybe only for the bragging rights to say he did it. But instead of harming Stiles, Derek settles on just standing there, glaring at him. Glaring. Like Stiles has done something to personally offend him just by existing, which may actually be the case. 

“Are you going to say anything, or are you here just to stare at me?” 

Derek has a lit cigarette in his fingers. He reaches his hand up, takes a drag, and then slowly blows the smoke out in Stiles’ direction. “I hear you are a person who can get things done.”

Stiles blinks. “I am a person who does favors for friends. I’m not in the business of doing favors for werewolves who break my door.” 

Derek smokes some more, looking Stiles up and down, like he’s never seen a creature such as him in his entire life, and the more he looks, the more Stiles gets the sense that he would like nothing more than to kill him. Lots of people and creatures of the night have given Stiles that look before, because he has proven himself to be an irritating nuisance at best, but on Derek Hale’s face, it is more menacing. Even Stiles can admit that. Maybe it’s because Stiles knows that Derek has killed for a lot less than a snarky remark, or maybe it’s because Stiles knows Derek to be tougher than nails, or maybe it’s because Derek won’t stop staring at him. 

“I would never come to a place like this if I had anywhere else to go,” he is speaking through grit teeth, looking around him some more like he really has found himself in hell. Stiles’ books, his charms, his crystal ball, all of it. “I’ve heard you practice black magic.” 

Stiles purses his lips. Rumors spread very quickly in the supernatural world, because none of them have anything better to do than sit around talking about each other. So, Stiles has heard that Derek has never lost a fight and has ripped people’s necks out with his teeth and is an undefeated fucking psychopath. And apparently, Derek has heard that Stiles has a particular penchant for raising dead bodies from the dead just to hunt the zombies for the sport of it. This is what they say, at least. “I think you should leave.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Derek counters. He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with a big black boot. Stiles watches the movement and swallows, moving his eyes slowly up to meet Derek’s head on. Eye contact. Stiles has been told his direct gaze is like looking into a pit, a black hole, a vortex that goes somewhere very, very bad. 

Derek’s lips part in surprise and he nearly takes a step back in alarm – then, holds his ground. “You know I could hurt you,” Derek threatens, squaring his shoulders. “You know I could hurt you a lot.” 

This does not scare Stiles, not in the very least bit. He has been threatened many, many times, by far bigger and far nastier creatures than the likes of a wannabe bad boy like Derek Hale. So he smirks, lifting a single eyebrow as he cocks his head to the side. “Would you like to find out what I could do to you?” 

There is one thing that Stiles knows about werewolves, even a werewolf like Derek – they are petrified, down to the very bone, of witches. They think magic is spooky and horrifying, they find spells confounding and tail-twitching. There is a long, long history of witches being like a werewolf kryptonite, and as a result, many stories of wolves burning witches alive at the stake out of fear of what that witch would do to them if they didn’t. 

It is no surprise then, that this particular threat seems to cow Derek, even if it’s only a little bit. He clears his throat and tries to act like he isn’t afraid to be here, like the smell of Stiles alone isn’t sending signals up to his dog brain to run for the hills and never come back again. “I can pay you,” he offers, and this, Stiles is actually interested in. He stops methodically wiping his tarot cards in favor of setting them down on his table, leaning back against it and waving his hand like _go on_. “I have money, you know I do.”

That, Stiles does. There is a lot of money to be won in werewolf fights, especially if you are good at it, like Derek very famously is. No one has ever won against him, and some of those fights go for hundreds of thousands of dollars. He must be disgustingly wealthy, by now. Though, what a werewolf would possibly do with that kind of money when they prefer solitary confinement in a hovel in a woods is beyond Stiles’ guessing. 

“What exactly are you here to ask me to do?” 

Derek throws his hands in the air and growls, suddenly very frustrated. “I cannot be in here another fucking second,” he bursts out, gesturing around to the state of Stiles’ shop. The magic books are whispering, the crystal ball turning clouds and lightning over and over again even without Stiles’ touch, the rocks are humming, and Derek is creeped out. Like, beyond creeped out. Even being in here has got him on edge and about to shift into a dog. “Outside.” 

Without waiting for a response, Derek turns tail and stomps out the way he came. Through the busted doorframe, out onto the cold sidewalk, right underneath the big glowing red sign that announces Stiles as a fortune teller to the whole world. Stiles watches him go and has this fantasy where he just sets his door back up and puts a ward on it so no werewolf, not even one as powerful and determined as Derek, could break it down, where he forgets the entire thing. 

But money is not something that Stiles is ever in very much of a position to turn down. Believe it or not, ever since the rumors about him being an insane hell demon that wields the power of the underworld started circulating, not very many people are coming to him looking to get their fortunes told. He’s close to losing his lease on the store and the apartment above it where he lives, and then he doesn’t know where he will go. 

With a heaving sigh, Stiles follows Derek out into the chilly night air. He finds the wolf standing a full ten feet away from the store, hovering down the block, glaring even harder under the light of the full moon over their heads. Stiles walks in his direction, and then stops a safe distance away in case Derek decides to go psycho and claw Stiles across the face. He crosses his arms over his chest and makes an _I’m listening_ face, scuffing his shoes on the concrete. 

Derek is lighting another cigarette, frantically puffing on it like he has a lot of nerves to calm. “Look. I don’t know of any other witches. As far as anyone knows, you are the only one around who can do this kind of magic.”

“And what kind of magic are we talking about?”

Derek blows some more smoke out. He chooses to look at Stiles’ mouth instead of in his eyes, again. “I need you to bring someone back.”

“Back.”

“From the dead.”

“Absolutely not,” Stiles scoffs, shaking his head. “Not for you, not for all the money in the world.” 

Derek looks at him, just looks. He is not going to accept no for an answer, and Stiles knows it, but it doesn’t matter, because Stiles will not do that. He cannot do that, not again. “Why not for me in specific?”

“Uh,” Stiles laughs and is shaking his head again, mostly in disbelief that Derek could really ask him that question. “First of all, you think I haven’t heard all about you? I know who you are, I know the kinds of things that you do.” 

“People say a lot of things.”

“So, you haven’t killed people before? That’s just a rumor?”

“I don’t kill _people_ ,” he growls, ashing his cigarette down onto the concrete with a murderous flick of his index finger. This may be true, that Derek doesn’t kill humans, but then Stiles wonders when it started to matter so much whether someone was evil or not. “And no one who hasn’t deserved it.” Before Stiles can open his mouth to retaliate, Derek is talking over him, taking a single step forward, as though that is as close to Stiles as he dares to get. “And you think I haven’t heard about you? The things people say about you, I’m surprised you can talk to me with such an air of superiority, witch.” 

Stiles knows what they say. He knows he is unforgivably rotten with dark magic, because doing that kind of magic leaves its mark all over a person and never lifts, never fades, never goes away. He knows people think he crawled up from hell or is possessed by a demon or uses magics given to him by Satan himself – he knows all that. He knows they think he kills people for magic. 

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” Stiles says, his voice as low as he can get it to convey finality. “Not anymore. I won’t do that type of magic for anyone, let alone a wolf.” 

“I’ll pay you,” he repeats, digging into his pocket to produce an old leather wallet. He opens it up and pulls crisp, fresh hundred dollar bills out, a whole lot of them, fanning them out for Stiles to see that he’s serious, that he’s good for it. “Name your price. A thousand?”

Stiles curls his lip in disgust and shakes his head. “You’re not listening to me.”

“Two thousand?”

“No.”

“Five?”

Stiles takes one, two, three steps closer – so close that Derek actually jerks back, because he doesn’t want Stiles to get that close to him. There are very few people left that walk the earth that want Stiles to ever be that close to them. “I don’t do that anymore,” he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. “Not for all the money in your wallet, do you hear me?” 

Slowly, Derek pushes the money and the wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. He’s got on ripped, bloodied clothes, Stiles notices for the first time. One of his terrible tattoos is bleeding, and his face is dirty, like he came directly from a fight to accost Stiles. He is very threatening looking, but all the same, Stiles stands his ground and grits his teeth, resolute. 

“You know, I could fucking break your neck. Wouldn’t even think twice about it,” he looks at Stiles up and down again, as though sizing him up. Calculating exactly how much force he’d have to put in to rip him right down the middle, tear his limbs off, split his head open. “I think you’re filthy with rotten magic.” 

“Imagine what I must think of you,” Stiles moves closer, again, just to watch Derek trip over himself to back away again. It makes Stiles smirk, to watch such a huge guy practically break his ankle trying to get away from Stiles even though they are still a full five feet apart. “I don’t want your blood money, trust me.” 

“Think whatever you want,” Derek spits from between grit teeth, adjusting the lapel on his jacket as if brushing off the fact that he’s been running away from Stiles out of fear this entire conversation. “I know you’re not in any position to be turning away cash. You know where to find me.”

With that, Derek turns on his heel and walks out into the street, moving to the other side where the store fronts are all dark and blacked out. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and doesn’t look back, stalking off into the night until the shadows swallow him up and Stiles can’t track him anymore. Once he’s gone for good, Stiles sighs and makes quick work of fixing his door – he’s practically memorized the spells for doing so by now, considering the number of times people have thrown bricks through his windows or tried to set the place ablaze with him inside of it. 

It is a wonder he doesn’t just leave, go someplace where his reputation doesn’t follow him around like a black cloud – or like he himself is the black cloud, the thing no one wants around anymore. But then, Derek was right. Stiles doesn’t have any money to get out, even if he wanted to. Then, even if he could, where would he go? Who would take him in? He doesn’t have anybody left.

After the door is set and locked up tight, Stiles turns off all the lights in his shop and heads for the back stairs that lead up to his apartment. Once inside, he shuts the door and whispers the curse that will keep him safe for the night from anyone who might want to break in and hurt him, or even kill him, or burn him alive. It seals the door with a red glow, so Stiles sighs and feels safe for the first time since he opened that same door this morning. 

In his tiny bathroom, he squeezes the edge of the sink and looks himself in the mirror. His hands are shaking; Derek Hale is a large, imposing person who threatened him and looked at him with so much disdain it’s a wonder Stiles didn’t go up in flames from the look alone. He is good at playing tough when he needs to, but the encounter had shaken him more than he’d ever admit. 

Given the chance, Derek would kill him. And, funnily enough, Stiles would likely do the same right back to him. In the world they live in, there is not very much room for friendships or even allyships to form between witches and wolves – wolves burn witches, witches hunt wolves. It’s in their DNA. 

Still, Stiles is not exactly living large. He doesn’t have the rent that’s due in two days, and his landlord is not exactly the tree hugging, free room and board type. Especially since the guy would not step in if an angry mob were to storm his place and tie him to a cross to light him up like a Christmas tree, Stiles is betting that if he couldn’t make rent, he’d be out on the streets before he could even blink. He’s been living off of ramen and what he manages to forage from the woods for months, now, and he’s skinny and his face is sunken in and he’d do just about anything for a fucking cheeseburger. 

When he climbs into bed, he stares up at his ceiling and wishes that what people said about him was actually true. He wishes he really were Satan’s minion. Satan’s minion probably gets a warm meal every now and again, and an apartment with a ceiling that does not leak. Satan’s minion would probably be in a mansion on the other side of town where the humans live, where werewolves don’t come barreling in demanding magical slavery from others. 

As it is, Stiles is just a kid who made a lot of mistakes because he didn’t know any better. Now, he pays the price for his actions every single day.

**

Against Stiles’ better judgment, but on account of his own desperation, he walks three blocks down the road the following night. He hadn’t made barely any money all day long, aside from selling a few crystals to some teenage girls who giggled the entire time and looked at him like they suspected him to be a character from a Halloween movie come to life – and he is just pitiful enough to not have the pride to keep himself from coming here.

He stares at the glowing neon sign and pushes his hood down off of his face, frowning and trying to look like he isn’t nervous. A werewolf drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette outside doubletakes him, looking him up and down as though making sure he’s really seeing what he thinks he is. Maybe he thinks himself to be too drunk to be seeing clearly, because he does not try to say or do anything to Stiles, even as Stiles reaches out and pulls the door wide open, disappearing into the dim lights of the bar. 

Inside, it reeks like werewolf and blood and vomit. Stiles grits his teeth against the stench as he walks, scanning faces as he goes. Most of these individuals are not people that Stiles could pick out of a lineup, seeing as how he makes it a very solid point to avoid werewolves at all fucking costs – especially this fucking bar. Stiles would normally say he could not be paid to come to this bar, not even in broad daylight let alone this late at night, but, then, he’s never been this desperately broke before. 

He knows they can smell him, the second he’s inside. Everyone turns to look at him at once, like he’s a stranger in a movie walking into a biker bar – some of them even know who he is, he would bet. The way some of them look at him like they’d claw him to death given just one fraction of a chance, he’d bet his entire life savings on it, as a matter of fact. The whispering and muttering starts up the farther he walks in, so he straightens up and smirks, like it doesn’t bother him, not even a little. 

Stiles could do a lot of damage to everyone in here, if he wanted to. They all know that. None of them leap up to rip his throat out or claw him or even say a word to them – they let him walk right by, too afraid of what Stiles might do to them otherwise. It is a powerful feeling at the same time it makes Stiles feel like garbage. 

They think he’s dangerous. 

It doesn’t take long to spot Derek Hale; especially since Derek Hale spots him, first. At the end of the bar, tucked into a booth with two people Stiles does not recognize. He has a pint of beer in his hand, that he puts down on the table with a hard clack the second he sees Stiles coming towards him. It’s like he’s spotted an apparition, or something, the way his face goes white with surprise. 

Before Stiles can get within ten feet of the table, Derek is leaping up, all huge and menacing again. He gets on his feet and looks around, maybe to check and make sure very few people are paying attention. Of course, everyone is, so he growls under his breath and approaches Stiles with a narrowed set to his eyes. “You must be as psychotic as everyone says you are,” he barks at Stiles, looking him up and down the way he’s so fond of doing. “Walking in here like you own the place.” 

Stiles grins, all teeth, even while Derek frowns right back at him. 

“People in here would eat you alive,” he actually has the balls to reach out and touch Stiles – puts his hand on Stiles’ upper arm, and unceremoniously begins dragging him towards the back door. Other wolves watch, probably enjoying the show, assuming that Derek is taking Stiles out back to kill him or something.

Derek throws the door open, and then tosses Stiles outside like a sack of potatoes – Stiles stumbles into the alley wall, his shoes crunching broken glass and who knows what the hell else. “You are so fucking lucky I was here,” he practically shouts as Stiles rights himself. “People in there? They would kill you, instead of just talking about it.”

“They’re too afraid to try and do anything to me,” he leans against the brick wall and smirks some more, so Derek looks at him like he’s crazy again. “I’m a hell witch, remember? Werewolf blood makes for a good little snack.”

Derek touches him again. This time, it is not a friendly touch. He takes Stiles by his neck, almost starts to squeeze, almost gets the chance to do some serious damage to him. Who knows what Derek planned to ultimately do to him – maybe just shut him up, maybe actually try and strangle him. It doesn’t matter either way, because in seconds, Derek is pulling his hand away with a shout, because where his fingers had touched, he has been burned. The skin is still steaming as he backs away, holding it against his chest in pain and shock, gritting his teeth as he looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles grins even wider, shaking his head with a cluck of his tongue. “You should know better than to try to hurt me. You may be unkillable, but I can certainly try.” 

“You are fucking crazy,” he shakes his hand – it’s already starting to heal, Stiles can tell even from all the way over here. “I’m starting to think you get off on this sort of thing.”

“Get off?” Stiles repeats, lifting a brow. “I thought kinky pain play was the werewolf thing.” 

“Did you come here to taunt me, witch?” He puts his hands on his hips, looking Stiles up and down yet again. “Or did you actually want something?” 

Stiles pokes his fingers at his own neck, where Derek had touched him, where Stiles had burned him. There is nothing there, just flesh and bone and veins pumping with blood. “Who exactly is it that you want me to bring back from the dead?” 

Derek observes him. He is waiting for a punch line, or for Stiles to say he’s fucking with him, or maybe even for Stiles to zap him with some bolt of lightning from his fingers. But Stiles just stands there waiting for an answer, trapped in an alley with Derek Hale, nowhere to run even if he wanted to. 

After a moment, Derek pulls a cigarette out and lights it, while Stiles watches his movements like a hawk. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Stiles plays coy, tilting his head to the side and smirking like this is all a game to him. In reality, he needs that money, and he doesn’t know just how good Derek is at reading lies, but he hopes it’s not that good. Seeming desperate will do nothing to help his case, nothing at all. “Who is it?”

Derek sucks on his smoke, and then drops his hand so it dangles limp and lit between his fingers. “Does it matter?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles rolls his eyes, all over-dramatic. “It matters big time. For starters, there’s a whole lot about the specific person that’s a huge part of the magic needed to bring them back up. We’ll have to dig the body up out from the ground, assuming they’re buried, otherwise they’ll have to claw their way out of their own grave which, trust me, is not as romantic as it sounds.”

Throughout this entire speech, Derek just stands there, staring and blinking at him, no discernible expression on his face. But Stiles can tell that this shit freaks him out. Hearing about exhuming bodies from the earth gives him the absolute creeps – Stiles has marinated in this sort of talk his entire life, so it doesn’t bother him any, and the nonchalance of it may be part of the reason Derek is so unnerved by it. “So, you really have done this before?” 

Stiles frowns and looks away. “I have made mistakes.” 

“But you can,” Derek moves toward him, perhaps as close as he dares to get. “But you…you can do it. You know that you can do it. You have done it before.”

“Look,” he runs a thumb over his mouth, and his eyes are caught by a particularly brightly colored tattoo on Derek’s forearm. It’s red, bright red, and Stiles wonders what it is. “…I know that what people say about me is that I am some kind of satanic black magic connoisseur who raises zombies from the dead just for the chuckles, but the reality is, when I used to –“ he stops, has to clear his throat and square his shoulders. He does not talk about this very often. Nobody ever really asks, after all. “…I am no master. I was a kid.”

This does not impress Derek, or even really seem to interest him. He does not prod for the details or demand to know what it was like or ask to see the scars. He just frowns and makes a face, like Stiles is beneath him. “Everyone knows you brought your dad back.”

“I bet they never mentioned the part where he was a brain dead demon that I had to hunt and kill with my bare hands just to keep him from hurting anyone,” he says, and Derek goes quiet, for just a moment. This is not information he knew, and it shows – in the way he pauses and looks at Stiles like he almost feels badly for having said anything at all. But then, Derek Hale is no empath, so his face quickly rearranges back to something resembling apathy. “You know that that is a possibility. Whoever it is, they may come back wrong. I won’t do anything for you unless I know that you know that.” 

Derek takes a drag and shrugs, like this is all nonsense to him anyway. “It’s worth a shot.” 

This is not the kind of magic that one does on a whim, or that is done because there’s nothing on television that night. Derek acts like this is just another day for him, standing in an alley with a witch no one has anything good to say about, half demanding magic be done at his behest. Derek shrugs and has no emotion on his face, likely because he has no emotions in him to begin with. 

The last time Stiles had done this particular spell, it nearly killed him. It took everything in him to do it, all of his magic, all of his willpower, and then it was all for nothing. All he really got out of it was a curse, a black mark on him, and this moment, here and now. Everything in him says that to try again would be suicide, or at least would be bad enough that suicide would start to look like a real viable option instead of just something to journal about. All the same, Stiles won’t overshoot his odds, so he lowballs it instead of asking for what would really get him out of the hole he’s dug for himself. 

“One thousand,” he says, putting his chin in the air. This is not a large sum of money to Derek – who blinks like Stiles had asked for a lollipop and not a huge wad of cash. “I won’t do it for a penny less.” 

Derek smokes the last of his cigarette and then throws it into a nearby puddle, where it sizzles as it goes out and then floats like a dead body. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Stiles repeats. “And I want it in cash. Up front.” 

“You want me to hand you a thousand dollars right here and now when you could just run off with it and skip town?” Derek draws his eyebrows in, and Stiles realizes that as a person who doesn’t know him and also has been told nothing but vitriol about him, Derek may assess Stiles to be the type of person who would do that to someone else. The trouble is, he really isn’t, as much as he wishes he were. “Not to mention, how do I know you’re telling me the truth? That you can even do something like this? I may not know a lot about magic, but I know this isn’t child’s play.”

Stiles looks at him. They make eye contact again, and Derek grits his teeth and acts like it does not bother him to look directly into Stiles’ gaze. “Would you like some proof?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Derek’s voice is toneless, and freaked. He takes a step back, looking Stiles up and down as though he half expects Stiles to go up and flames then and there. Stiles pulls his sleeve up, baring his forearm to the open air, and from the way Derek reacts you’d think Stiles had a gun on him – but instead, Stiles just shows Derek the pale skin, the freckles, and the giant black mark that takes up more space than anything else there.

It’s huge, and terrible, and ugly, the mark. It’s like that part of his body up and died but stayed glued on, anyway, when perhaps the whole arm should’ve just gone ahead and fallen off. Black, decayed, so dark it’s like a tattoo but thicker, part of his skin. The blue veins in and around it are pronounced. It’s hard to look at, Stiles knows. He barely ever looks at it himself. 

Derek presses his lips down in a firm line. He knows what that is. It’s what black magic leaves behind. A forever scar. As soon as he can, he looks away from the deformity and makes a face, as though it really truly disgusts him. It disgusts most people, so Stiles doesn’t even bother with being offended. He just rolls his sleeve back down and raises an eyebrow. “Is that sufficient?”

Derek may be wondering why Stiles would be willing to do something like this again after what it did to his life the first time around. He may be thinking it’s insane that Stiles would willingly get another mark like that on his body, would willingly let dark energy inside of his body again, would do all of this just for a few bucks. But then, more likely than not, Derek doesn’t care about any of that. Why would he? Werewolves are notoriously apathetic to pretty much everything and everyone except their immediate family and pack. 

“I’ll bring the money by your place tonight,” he says, tone clipped. He is already beginning to move away, from Stiles and this entire conversation, likely to go back inside and drink some more before having to go fight someone else for money and everyone’s entertainment. Without another word, he shoves past Stiles back through the door into the bar, disappearing behind it as it slams closed.

**

When Derek shows up at Stiles’ shop, it’s past midnight, and he’s covered in blood.

He bursts in through the front door, but at least has the decency to not break it down this time, walking inside as though he’s earned the right to do so. Stiles looks at him and frowns, and Derek frowns right back at him. He’s got a black eye that’s already healing, a huge split in his lip that is also healing, and his clothes are ruined, just like they were the other night. Stiles wonders how often Derek has to buy new clothes, if he even bothers with buying anything he actually likes or not. 

He walks up to where Stiles is sitting, among his crystals and his books, and reaches into his jacket to produce a small stack of bills. He slaps it down onto the table right in front of Stiles, grunting out a “here,” as he does so. Then, he runs his hand through his hair and looks away – at one of Stiles’ tapestries, with the phases of the moon on it. He traces it with his eyes, while Stiles busies himself with grimacing at the cash in front of him.

It has blood all over it. Most things that belong to Derek likely have blood all over them. “You couldn’t have given me the not disgusting hundreds?”

“Oh, I’m sorry your highness,” Derek spits, tone dripping so heavy with sarcasm it’s a wonder he can even get them off of his tongue, “I’ll get you the fresh linen scented bills next time.” 

Stiles picks up the money with two fingers, slowly counting them all out. It’s a thousand, exactly, so he pushes it away and then stares at it – not sure what else he’s supposed to do or say, in this moment. He’s never done a transaction quite like this one, so the script for it just doesn’t exist at all in his brain. Not to even mention, he has never in his life really interacted with a werewolf before. In passing, yes, but never nearly as much as he has interacted with Derek Hale.

And Derek Hale is not just any werewolf. Not by a long shot. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” Derek barks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his very worn down looking leather jacket. The thing looks like if it takes any more abuse it’ll literally rip and tear at the seams and fall into a mass of fabric on the floor. “Do you need hair?”

Stiles looks up from the money and stares at him, jaw hanging open. “Do I need _hair_?”

“For the spell,” he says, like _no duh shouldn’t you know this?_

“We are not making a voo doo doll,” Stiles grouses, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest more defensively than casually. “You’ll need to help me dig them up. Speaking of, who exactly is it we’re unearthing to begin with?”

Derek sets his jaw. For just a moment, it almost seems like Derek is really going to try and get away with never telling Stiles this incredibly crucial information. It’s like he’s embarrassed by it, or like it’s too personal for Stiles to know about it. To Stiles’ surprise, Derek unclenches his teeth and speaks. “My mother.”

Stiles exhales. He had hoped it would be some ex-girlfriend of Derek’s who went and got herself killed, or maybe even a sibling or a friend, or…just not that. Not the guy’s fucking mother. He leans forward and rubs his hand across his forehead, once, twice, before clearing his throat and sitting up straight again. “I have to ask you if you’re prepared to kill whatever comes back.”

Derek snorts. “If it’s not her, of course I’ll kill it.” Killing is a non-issue to Derek Hale, after all, especially when it comes to beasts of the underworld. 

But, Stiles shakes his head. “I mean a thing that will have her face,” he keeps his voice very even to convey his seriousness, “I mean will you kill your own mother if it comes down to it.”

Stiles may not know everything, and he may have a very limited knowledge of werewolves in particular, but he does know a handful of things, about Derek in particular. He’s a big deal around here on account of the possible immortality of him, especially considering what wound up happening to his entire family, all those years ago. 

Everyone knows that. Stiles knows that Derek’s mother burned alive in a house that no longer really exists, somewhere on the other side of the woods where no one goes anymore. He knows that when somebody dies like that, when somebody is murdered and gets dragged down before they’re ready, it is far, far worse than any other kind of death. He knows that these kinds of trauma related deaths tend to be the kind that lend the most trouble when it comes to resurrections. 

He knows, from personal experience. 

“How hard could it be?” Derek asks, his voice doing that odd thing it does where it’s like he’s a robot, or he’s letting his body take over for him, like he doesn’t really want to say this at all, but lashing out is all he knows how to do. “I mean, you did it, so.”

Stiles is dumbfounded by the cruelty of that. To the point where he can only blink and frown in the wake of it. People have said horrible things to him about what he did when his father died, more than he could ever count, but it never actually gets…any easier. It was only the worst thing that ever happened to him and the worst thing that he ever did all wrapped up into one, so of course, it stings. Of course it does. 

“Get out,” Stiles tells him, pointing to the door. To further his point, he snaps his fingers, and the door itself bursts open, sending dead leaves and wind blowing in at them as it smacks against the wall with a hard crack. “Get the hell out. I’ll tell you when I need you.”

“That’s it?” Derek demands, like he’s honestly surprised at being kicked out. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll tell you when I need you,” Stiles repeats, and he gestures to the door again. Outside, a storm is brewing, rain ready to pour down on the streets, lightning ready to strike across the sky – Derek stands there like a silhouette, against the bright street lights outside, and he looks menacing. He is, after all. 

Without another word, he turns on his heel and goes out the door with stomping feet, vanishing like a shadow. He doesn’t bother closing the door behind himself, so Stiles sighs and slams it shut, turning to collect his blood money with a curl to his lip. 

Upstairs, he holds the money in his hands and sort of feels like a millionaire. He fans it out and then waves it around, relishing in the feel of it between his fingers. It’s incredible how easy it is to ignore the fact that it’s drenched in someone else’s blood, maybe Derek’s or maybe some stranger he beat the hell out of. He hasn’t held this much money in his hands in…well, ever frankly, so he screws around in his apartment like the King of England all night. 

Then, he shoves several of the bills into the first envelope he digs out of his mail pile, for rent. He knows that his landlord will presume that the bills are bloody on account of one of Stiles’ many dealings with the devil, but really, Stiles can’t find it in himself to care. He’s just managed to escape homelessness for only the dozenth time since he wound up all alone in the world, so he won’t let himself get bogged down by the details of it. 

In the morning, he’s up at sunrise with a spring in his step. He goes and buys himself a coffee, like a real one, not the sludge they peddle at the soup kitchen. It’s got real espresso and a sweet syrup and frothed milk, and even though the barista glares at him like he’s got the mark of the devil on him (because he does), Stiles enjoys every last second of the experience and pretends it’s normal. Or, that he is. 

He goes to the grocery store and stocks up on cheap filler foods like pasta, rice, ramen, frozen vegetables, and he even treats himself to a storemade chocolate cake. He holds it in his hands reverently before he sets it into his cart, could kiss the hard plastic top shielding it from the outside world and all of its germs – he cannot remember the last time he had something so decadent and frivolous, all to himself. 

When he gets home it’s the first thing he opens. He sits at his dingy kitchen table, tears the top off of it, and doesn’t even bother cutting a slice out. He just takes the one fork he owns and jabs into it, getting as much frosting into one bite as he possibly can, and eats it. Slowly, savoring each and every bite he takes. He sits, eating mechanically, staring out his rusty old window that overlooks the streets below, and he tries not to feel miserable over the fact that eating a six dollar chocolate cake from the grocery store is the most enjoyment he’s gotten out of life in months. 

He eats until he physically can’t anymore, placing the lid back on his cake and stuffing it into his mostly empty fridge. There are some potions in glass bottles, a half pound of rat’s tails, and a can of peaches, and that’s it. Stiles wipes the frosting off of his face. Then, he isn’t sure what to do with himself.

**

Stiles walks into the werewolf bar that Derek Hale frequents for the second time in a week, which is two whole times in his entire life also, and again, all eyes fall on him like he’s naked and covered in whipped cream. Wolves tend to look at witches either like something to rip the spine out of at their earliest possible convenience or like something to play with, and frankly, Stiles can never decide which is worse, so he settles on doing his level best to ignore it. He does not spot Derek right away, as he gazes down the line of wolves sitting at the bar or huddling in a booth on the other side of the room, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and tries his best to not be conspicuous.

Unfortunately, his entire essence is conspicuous, especially to these people, so of course he isn’t left alone to his own devices for very long. He’s walking up to the bar to maybe order a water to drink while he waits for Derek to materialize, when somebody actually gathers up the stones to walk up to him and say something; Stiles puts his hands on the bar top, watching as the girl behind it makes someone else a drink, and then a huge mass of a person is blocking his view.

It’s obviously a werewolf, just from the size of them alone, and Stiles frowns. He doesn’t very much like cavorting with these types, and Derek Hale has been a pretty good example as to why. They aren’t particularly nice. 

“You lost?” He asks, and Stiles looks up to see a vaguely familiar face. He thinks it’s another one of those crazy werewolf fighting guys, another of Derek’s type, but he can’t be sure. 

“No,” Stiles says, tone flat. “Thanks, though.”

The werewolf stares at him for a second, almost as though he’s genuinely surprised that a little rat like Stiles would have the nerve to say something like that to someone of his caliber. It is clear that this person could rip Stiles in half without breaking a single sweat, so Stiles should be afraid of him – instead, Stiles just stands there and blinks, like he could honestly care less. 

“You reek like death,” he says with this air of disgust, leaning in closer, and closer. Stiles holds his ground. “You must be looking for trouble, coming in here.”

“No trouble,” he rolls his eyes. “Can you leave me alone? You’re breathing on me.” 

That does it. The wolf reaches his hands out, likely to pummel Stiles to within an inch of his life or claw his face off or any number of truly terrible things – but the second his skin touches Stiles’ shoulders, he’s burned. He jerks away with a hiss and then a curse, surprised and embarrassed and likely pissed off beyond all hell, while Stiles just stands there with a blank look on his face. Other people around him are taking note, which is not good, not good at all, because Stiles can handle one wolf just fine, maybe two on a good day, but an entire room full of them? 

Not so much. 

“You fucking freak,” the wolf grits from between his teeth. His hands are still smoking up a storm, twitching in pain as the skin boils over, but he reaches them out to touch Stiles again, like the lesson has not yet been learned. 

Stiles is about to zap him and run, out of the bar and down the street to hide in his apartment before the wolves start ganging up on him – but then, either luckily or unluckily depending on how he chooses to look at it, Derek finally appears like a wall. 

He takes the other wolf by the scruff of his neck and tosses him back against a table across the room. Some pint glasses topple over, one smashing, as beer fizzes down the edge and onto the floor and the wolves who had been sitting there growl and titter in irritation. Bar fights here are probably a dime a dozen, so as Stiles straightens himself up and looks around, he sees most people could not care less about this, drinking and rolling their eyes or just plain ignoring it. 

Derek looks at Stiles, then looks at the wolf who was fucking with him, and he looks…annoyed. Really fucking annoyed. “What did I tell you about coming around here?” He hollers at Stiles like he’s a little kid, puffing up and squaring his shoulders. Stiles just frowns and shrugs, like he honestly can’t remember what Derek said. “I said not to do it. You’re lucky to not be killed.” 

“What the hell are you doing hanging around with the fucking necromancer, Hale?” 

Derek glares at the other wolf, eyebrows drawing in. He’s got another cigarette in his fingers, that he shoves into his mouth to hold between his lips as he reaches out and takes Stiles by the arm, almost a little too roughly. Stiles staggers and is pressed up against Derek’s side, and this is the first time Stiles realizes just how imposing of a person Derek really is – he’s stone hard, solid, and he’s big, with arms like giant fucking logs. 

With the cigarette still in his mouth, as smoke billows out, Derek snarls. “How about you don’t worry about what the fuck I’m doing. And that goes for the rest of you,” he addresses the room at large – some people look at him, some don’t. “The witch is with me, so don’t fuck with him.”

Stiles looks around, and nobody says a word. You could hear a pin drop in here, it’s dead silent. Apparently, in the werewolf world, whatever Derek says goes. If a person, even a person as undesirable as the resident hell hound, is with Derek, they get a _do not touch_ sign hung around their neck. 

Without another word, Derek takes Stiles by his elbow to the nearest empty booth. The wolf who had wanted to kill Stiles earlier is pissed off, throwing his arms in the air and storming out of the bar like he’s going to go out in the alley and kick some cans around to work out his frustration, because he sure as hell isn’t going to fight Derek Hale over this. It’s a death wish, after all. 

Derek tosses Stiles like a sack of potatoes into one side of the booth, and then slides into his own side. He glares over the table top as Stiles rights himself, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth with a huff. “It’s really a miracle you’ve managed to live this long already,” he says, apropos of nothing. “You seem to have a real bad case of idiocy.” 

“You think I can’t handle myself,” Stiles challenges, raising his eyebrows. 

“I know you can’t,” he insists, looking across the room to make eye contact with the bartender. “Against a room full of werewolves, absolutely not. I don’t need you going off getting yourself fucking killed before you do what I paid you to.”

Right, of course. Derek genuinely would not give a shit if he walked in one day and found various parts of Stiles’ body strewn across the bar top, his blood all over the floor and ceilings; just so long as Stiles had done the spell for him, then who cares? 

Summoned by a look alone, the girl from behind the bar approaches their table, wiping her hands with a bar rag. She gives Stiles a dirty look, but other than that, says nothing to him, like he barely exists as far as she’s concerned. 

“You want a drink? I’ll buy you one,” Derek says to Stiles, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Ah, I’m not exactly of age.”

Derek stares at him. 

“I’m nineteen,” he goes on, and Derek blinks. 

“You are nineteen fucking years old?” He looks at Stiles really hard, up and down, like he cannot believe a word of this. Stiles knows that he looks a bit older, and that he acts a bit older too, and he knows that not many nineteen year olds are on this side of town slumming it with the scourges of society, or at least that not many do so and live to tell the tale. Derek’s surprise is not necessarily unheard of. “Jesus fucking Christ…”

“I’ll serve him,” the bartender says, frowning about it. “We make a drink here called the witch’s brew.”

“It tastes like ass,” Derek insists, waving it off. 

“I’ll have one,” he perks up, a bit giddy at the chance to drink alcohol. “It’s a bit on the nose, but –“

She walks away before he can finish this sentence, storming off like this is all beneath her anyway. When she’s gone, Stiles purses his lips and looks across the table at Derek, who is staring at him again. He does that, Stiles has noticed. Really fucking stares at people, as though he has never been taught that normal people do not do that. At Stiles, his stare is calculating and intense, like he’s trying to figure him out. 

“How old were you when you brought your dad back?” He asks this question like he’s angry about it, assessing Stiles like a math problem. 

Stiles clears his throat, averting his eyes. “Fifteen.”

Derek has nothing to say to that. He may not be the world’s greatest empath and he may lack even the barest sense of human decency, but that is still hard for anyone to hear. To be a fifteen year old kid, losing a dad, becoming an orphan, and then having to…

But Derek was sixteen when his entire family went up in flames, so hey, he knows the fucking feeling of being too young to emotionally comprehend something. Now he’s here, this shell of a person who fights people to the death for money, who asks people like Stiles for favors. 

The drinks come. Derek gets just a regular old beer and a shot of something dark colored – but Stiles’ drink comes in a copper cup with a straw and a lime sticking on the edge. He peers over it, and he raises his eyebrows. “It’s green.”

“It’s fucking disgusting.”

Stiles shrugs. He’ll take what he can get. After his first sip he has to agree with Derek that it is ultimately horrible, squishing his face together like he just sucked on a lemon, but he still goes in for a second one all the same. 

“Why did you come here?” Derek asks him after taking the shot, thumping the empty glass down on the table top. “Looking for me?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, fiddling with his lime. “We need to get a move on if we’re going to do this. The full moon is tomorrow. That’s the best time to –“

“Yeah,” he cuts Stiles off, looking around like he doesn’t want anyone to hear what it is they’re going to be doing. Which makes sense – wolves don’t generally take kindly to magic doing, even for their own gain. “All right. Do you need any,” he waves his hand, “supplies?”

“I have everything already,” he shrugs. “But we do need a sacrifice of some kind. I, uh, I chose a bird last time.”

Derek sips his beer and gives Stiles that critical look again. Stiles is really beginning to wonder what Derek thinks about, when he looks at Stiles like that. “So I should go find someone’s pet for us to kill?”

“Christ,” Stiles bursts out, offended. “No, holy shit. Just – some random animal. I figured you’d be good at…hunting.” 

“I am,” Derek says, tone even. “Birds, not so much. A raccoon, sure.” 

“You’ll need to slit its throat, so maybe not something that will wiggle too much.”

Derek stares at him again. “Those demons you worship really ask for a lot, don’t they?”

After a long hard sip of his drink, Stiles stares at the table, at his hands, the fingers smooth. “I don’t worship demons,” he corrects, voice low. “You don’t understand anything about who I am or what I do.” 

Across the table, Derek drums his fingers on the top of it, sighing through his nose. “How true are the things people say about you? Are you really…?”

“Do you think someone who worships satan and does his bidding would live in a shitbox apartment in Beacon Hills doing spells for werewolves for rent money?” He gestures around himself, to this terrible bar filled with terrible people that reeks of grime and piss, and raises his eyebrows. 

Derek finishes his beer. He reaches for his pack of smokes to maybe light up another one, and then seems to think better of it, letting his hand rest on the table. “You know you’re too young to be doing all this shit, right?”

“Whatever,” Stiles looks away, frowning. 

“People around here chew kids like you up and spit them right back out and they don’t typically live long enough to –“

“Oh, what are you, my fucking dad?”

“No,” Derek says this evenly, a tight frown on his face. “You don’t have one of those anymore.” 

Or, really, anywhere to go, or someplace to call home. Nothing, is what Stiles has, and Derek knows it good and well. 

“Just meet me at my place tomorrow,” Stiles huffs, pushing his half finished drink away as he stands from the table. “Bring a shovel and your dead raccoon.” 

“So we’ve decided I’m the one who has to kill the raccoon?” Derek grouses, holding his hands out like _what the fuck_. “You’re the fucking necromancer.”

“Just do it,” Stiles hisses at him, wrapping his arms around himself and turning to walk out the front door. He expects no resistance from Derek whatsoever, but instead, Derek is sliding out of his booth onto his feet hastily, sidling up alongside Stiles as they both head towards the door. 

“I’ll walk you back home,” he says this not like a suggestion or even as an offer, but as a command. He will walk Stiles home whether Stiles likes it or not, is what his tone says, but Stiles frowns at him and shakes his head. 

“I think I can make it there on my own, thanks.” 

He goes to move again, and Derek takes him by the shoulder, pulling him back like Stiles weighs nothing. They meet eyes, and this time, when Derek is struck by the emptiness in Stiles’, the vast sense of death and magic inside of them, he does not pull away. “Just fucking let me take you. You’re a kid.”

Stiles isn’t, is the thing, not really. And he hasn’t been one since he was fifteen. The second he killed that bird and let those dark things in to his body, the second he had to use his father’s service weapon to shoot and kill the thing that came back with his father’s face, he stopped being one. All the same, Derek seems to have an iron clad resolve and it’s not as though Stiles could really stop him, so he says not another word. He just starts walking, out the door, and Derek is walking right beside him in the cool night air. Their steps work in tandem, Stiles stuffing his hands into his pocket and frowning up at the moon – he wonders if Derek ever feels different underneath the pull of it, like all the books and movies say about wolves. 

“You should really think about taking that money and getting out of town.”

Stiles snorts. “You have a very twisted perception of how much a thousand dollars really is. I paid my rent and bought groceries and I barely have any left.”

Derek is quiet, after that. He looks mad, but then he always does, so Stiles just sighs and looks away, focuses on his own feet as they walk. Really, Stiles doesn’t know where this sudden interest in Stiles’ well being is coming from – is it just because Stiles admitted to Derek he’s only nineteen? He thinks that Derek is somewhere in his mid-twenties, so it’s not like he’s really that much older in the grand scheme of it all, or at least not old enough to be lording judgment down upon Stiles. 

And Derek Hale doesn’t give a shit about anyone. Least of all a nineteen year old witch with a dark mark on him. 

“What do you even plan to do if we bring your mother back up and she’s herself?” Stiles asks as they approach his front door – they’re illuminated in the glowing light of his fortune telling sign, Derek casted up all red and bright, like blood. 

“What were you going to do if you managed to bring your dad back right?” He counters, and Stiles purses his lips and looks away. He had planned on getting his fucking life back, that’s what he remembers thinking. He wanted to be normal and have somewhere to go and someone to rely on – that’s what he remembers. 

Stiles wonders what Derek’s life was like before…all of this. For as long as Stiles has been on this side of town and known who Derek Hale even was, this is who he has been. He has been the immortal, unkillable werewolf who never lost a fight and drinks himself half to death every night. It’s hard to imagine Derek ten years ago, as a sixteen year old, in a normal house being as normal as a werewolf ever gets. Having a pack. 

Whatever it was like, Derek wants it back, now. How could anyone fault him for that? How could anyone have faulted Stiles for wanting the same? They did, though. They did, and they still do. 

“Try not to do anything stupid before tomorrow night,” he barks at Stiles all mad, and then he’s gone, just like he always is.

**

Stiles pulls cards for himself, underneath the flickering light of a candle. Sometimes the cards tell him nothing, nothing at all – he has pulled nonsense before, jibberish that doesn’t add up to anything that even he can decipher. Today he pulls a bloody hand, a rotting apple, a black dog. He stares at them, feeling a chill go up his spine the longer he looks, as though there is something written there that he needs to be paying attention to.

He looks at his hand and traces the lines, following the familiar contours of them to see if any of them have shifted. Sometimes they do, if he makes a decision that’s monumental enough. He remembers his hand used to be radically different when he was fifteen – the lines were all pretty standard, nothing too crazy to be found there. But then they all moved, turned more narrow, choppy, so when he’d read them he’d get things like _death_ and _misery_ and _hell_. 

Today, they are much the same. He sighs through his nose and presses his forehead against the wood of his table, breathing in and out, steadying himself. He had barely gotten any sleep last night, tossing and turning and remembering the way it had felt to do this the first time. It was like being eaten alive from the inside, to do something that intense. Back then he was still only just learning how to do the simple things; he could barely read tarot cards or get his crystal ball to show him anything, for god’s sake. 

With heavy fingers, he pulls the sleeve of his hoody back to reveal the black mark in all its glory. It thrums, sometimes, aches like a bruise – he runs the tips of his fingers along the ridges of it and he wonders if this one will get any bigger, or if he’ll get another one, somewhere else on his body. One that’s even worse. 

Before he has time to start truly feeling sorry for himself, Derek lets himself in through the back door. The sun is only just setting, so he’s still all lit up by its rays as he hovers in the doorway, frowning in at where Stiles is sitting. He has a shovel in one hand, and a plastic grocery bag in the other. 

It has a black and white ringed tail sticking out of it. Stiles could almost laugh at the image of Derek digging around in his house looking for something to put a dead animal in and coming up with a fucking Safeway bag. 

“Are you ready?” He sounds mad again, which Stiles is beginning to learn is simply his temperament. “Are we going in your car?”

With a huff of a laugh, Stiles stands and gives Derek a look. “You think I have a car?”

“Right,” Derek adjusts his grip on his shovel, frowning even more deeply. “You don’t have two pennies to fucking rub together, let alone a car. Got it.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, and then jerks his head over his shoulder, back outside to the alley, where he must have parked. Quickly, Stiles picks up the box of necessities he had packed only minutes before Derek’s appearance, and cradles it against his body. 

It’s the same one that he had brought with him to the cemetery the day he brought his dad, or whatever that thing was, back. It’s old, a gift from his mother before she passed – it’s got a crescent moon and some ancient Latin carved into the lid, and inside, the materials Stiles had collected to run this spell the first time still sit and wait for him to touch them again. 

He had shoved this thing into the deepest depths of his closet. Unearthing it was like going back in time, to find himself as that kid all over again. 

There’s a fancy, deep blue sports car parked in the alley, and Stiles is almost surprised to see Derek pushing his shovel and his dead raccoon into the trunk of it. Stiles imagined Derek would be driving something like a…well, Christ, he actually had never imagined Derek Hale driving a car before. He strikes Stiles as more of a prowl the streets type, but here he is, climbing into an expensive car and gesturing for Stiles to hurry up and get into the passenger seat. 

Inside, it smells like genuine leather, and werewolf. The scent of werewolf is pretty distinct – it’s not, as one would guess, a wet dog smell. It’s more of a very earthy, smoky kind of a smell, like a bonfire in the woods. It isn’t terrible. Stiles sits with his box in his lap, while Derek starts the engine and shifts into gear, going too fast out of the alley, and then too fast through the streets. 

Stiles can’t think of very much to say. Derek doesn’t put on the radio or say anything, either, just drives with his brow furrowed, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles go white. Stiles wonders if he’s nervous, at all, or scared, or if he’d ever let Stiles know that he was. Likely not. 

“I haven’t been to the cemetery in forever,” he pipes up, unable to bear the silence any longer. “I should visit more often. I bet people think I live there, or something.” 

Derek side-eyes him, stopped at a red light. “Most people think you don’t live anywhere, actually.”

This is interesting to Stiles – he turns his body and faces Derek as much as he can in the tight space. “What else do they say? That I shift into a bat every night and suck the blood out of little kids?”

“Don’t you?”

“Ha ha. You should know what they say about you,” he looks at the side of Derek’s face, because Derek, for whatever reason, is refusing to look directly at him. “Are you really unkillable?”

“Unkillable,” he nods his head in agreement, but he does not sound particularly happy about it. “Unfortunately.”

Stiles doesn’t think that he wants to touch that statement with a ten foot pole, considering he knows exactly how it is to fantasize from time to time about death like it’s an old friend and not…death. “If you’re unkillable and everyone knows it, why would anyone ever opt to fight you?”

“Unkillable does not mean that I cannot be bested in a fight,” he says this between grit teeth, as though talking about this is not something that he’s used to, or something that he even really enjoys doing. “Most people just can’t.” 

“Oh,” Stiles leans back in his seat and looks to the window, at the city as it passes them by. He has never actually been to the fights before, and why would he? They are not really his scene, not by a long shot, and the audience is usually packed with wolves and humans who are entirely undesirable. All Stiles really knows about them is that they’re terrible, and the people who pay to watch it are terrible, and the people who participate in it are terrible. 

The sun is fully set by the time they’re cruising along the dirt road that takes them into the cemetery, the sky grey and the moon appearing behind a cloud, the wind picking up in the trees. It rattles the branches and the dead leaves, whistling through the air to create an eerie humming sound as Derek parks along the side of the road. Stiles gets out with his box, looking across the sea of headstones and crosses, cradling it against his chest. 

Somewhere his father’s headstone still sits, right next to his mother’s, but he can’t quite remember where. He has not been to visit either of them since before, and he feels ashamed of that now, but he could never bring himself to come. He didn’t think he had it in him to face them, after what he did. 

Derek, shovel and dead raccoon in hand, starts walking. “It’s this way,” he says, and Stiles follows without comment. They walk gingerly among the dead bodies and the stones, the occasional bouquet of flowers to dodge as they go. Stiles keeps counting backwards from ten in his head to keep his mind occupied, so he won’t lose his nerve.

All of this for a couple months’ worth of rent, he thinks. But then, does it really matter? 

“It’s here,” Derek says, stopping in front of a big stone with lots of writing on it. Stiles looks at it briefly, then at the stones around it. All of them bear the name Hale, etched in in bold blocks, and Stiles purses his lips and feels sorry for Derek. No wonder he’s a complete maniac – all of these stones were put up on the same day, for Christ’s sake, and yet here Derek stands, only because of an anomaly in his genes that makes him impossible to kill. 

What must it have been like to be burning, to watch others around him burning, but to just not die? He must wish he had. 

Derek places the grocery bag down, and then he wields his shovel with both hands. He looks at Stiles, his expression unreadable. “Should I dig it up?”

It. He says it. Not her. 

“Yeah,” Stiles clears his throat and sets his box aside, next to the poor raccoon, kneeling down on the ground. “You dig. I need to – I need to get ready.” 

Derek hesitates. It is a very small hesitation, almost quick enough that Stiles doesn’t catch it, but he does. Derek stands there with the shovel and frowns at the ground, as though thinking for just one moment that he cannot do this after all, and then he grits his teeth and digs the shovel into the grass. He throws the dirt over his shoulder and goes again, and again, almost automatic, as though he’s just going through the motions, letting his body take over and his mind drift away. 

Stiles closes his eyes and digs his fingers into the grass. He knows that they’re watching him. The powers that be, whatever it is in the earth and the underworld that grants him these powers to begin with – they watch his every move, waiting for him to try something like this again. They want to be inside of him. He sucks in a deep breath, letting the sounds of Derek’s digging almost fade into the background, feeling the grass between his fingers. Breathing. Breathing. 

When he opens his eyes again, Derek is in the hole. He’s a wolf, so of course he’s made quick work of it. Stiles only sees the shovel handle moving, the dirt being flung onto the pile next to the hole, so he peers inside and sees that Derek is standing on top of the wooden casket they had buried his mother in. It’s white, but dirty, now. 

“That’s good enough,” Stiles tells him, so Derek stops with a huff. He’s got some sweat on his brow, his cheeks flushed, but nothing like what a normal human would look like if he had just done all this digging. He’s barely winded, as he hefts himself up and gets out of the hole, crawling onto his knees next to where Stiles is, frowning down into it. 

“Shouldn’t we get it out of there?” He asks. “So she won’t have to…”

Stiles nods, and then he stares down at the casket. Nothing happens for a moment, while Derek probably stands there staring at the side of Stiles’ face like he’s fucking crazy. But then, the thing jerks down below. It’s a grating noise, wood against dirt, and then it moves again, even more noisy. 

“Are you…” Derek starts to ask, but he’s cut off by the sound and sight of the thing slowly moving up and up, through the hole, and out of it, like it’s on an elevator, or like someone is underneath it, pushing it up. When it reaches the surface of the grass, it collapses down on top of the earth with a loud smashing noise. 

Derek is surprised. Also, maybe a little freaked. He falls back on his ass and his eyes are huge, as he looks between it and Stiles again and again, lips parted. He didn’t know Stiles could do things like that. 

Stiles stands. He moves around the hole in the ground and approaches the casket itself – it’s got bugs and dirt all over it, filthy, but its structure is still very much intact, even though ten years have gone by since it’s been above ground. He holds his hands out, and slowly, he reaches out to put them on top of it. “Oh, my god,” he says, voice shaking, his fingers curling against the wood. 

“What is it?” Derek demands, climbing up onto his feet. 

Stiles swallows a lump in his throat, wincing against the throngs of energy wafting off of the body inside of this thing – it’s almost too much for him to take. “The feel of this,” he says around a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut. “The energy off of her – she died in so much pain.” He feels tears springing to his eyes, unbidden and unwanted, but he can’t help it. “I can still feel it.”

Derek knows that his mother suffered as she died. He likely watched, so of course, this is not news to him. He simply stands there with his hands on his hips, eyes big in his head, no commentary whatsoever. 

There’s this desire to open it, to take a look at what her body wound up looking like at the end – but then, he knows that he doesn’t want to see it. It’s probably horrible. 

“Come on,” Stiles says, kneeling down on the ground right beside the casket, “help me set up.” 

He grabs his box and pulls it open, and the second he does, the air around them goes still. No wind, no more rustling in the trees, nothing. Derek notices it, and he too, goes still, like he’s just seen a ghost. The blood drains out of his face and he looks around, almost frantic, like he expects a monster to leap out at him at any moment. Stiles pulls out two candles, black, barely burned at all. They’ve only been lit once before, after all. 

He hands one to Derek, who takes it like he thinks it’ll turn into a snake once he touches it. 

A jar of blood from a fawn, a baggie of bones, two candles, a knife, and a leather bound book. Stiles pulls it all out one by one, laying it out on the grass while Derek watches in silence. When he gets to the book, he hesitates. 

Derek notices. “There’s something not right about this,” he mutters, and Stiles doesn’t even look at him. “This isn’t…”

This book is ancient. It holds powers Stiles doesn’t understand, that he couldn’t begin to hope to understand back then, and the last time he opened it…the last time he opened this fucking thing…

It doesn’t matter. He’s already chipped away at so much of his humanity, what’s a little more? Everyone already thinks he’s Satan’s pet, what’s just a little bit more? 

Stiles touches the book and it hums under his fingers, as he pulls it up with two hands, reverent. He places it down in front of him and feels along the cover, the leather binding firm and smooth. “I don’t like that thing,” Derek suddenly bursts out from overhead, and Stiles again does not look at him. 

“Neither do I,” he says. With a snap of his fingers, the candle that Derek is clutching in one hand lights up – and the flame glows black, black, black. No light comes from it at all, just a burning flame that’s as dark as night, and Derek looks about ten steps away from throwing it across the cemetery. 

“Give me the raccoon,” he commands, and Derek doesn’t move. Stiles finally looks up at him, looks him fully in the face, and for the first time since the two of them met, Stiles sees genuine fear there. 

His eyes are as wide as saucers. His skin is pale. He does not want to be here. 

“Derek,” he repeats, more forcefully, “the raccoon.” 

Slowly, Derek bends down and picks up the bag with a rustle, gently handing it off to Stiles, who rips it out of his hand and sets it down next to his blood and his bones. He makes quick work of taking the bones out of their bag, arranging them the way he remembers from the first time. When he’s finished, he observes his work to make sure it’s all in perfect order – the finished product is a symbol Derek recognizes instantly, from the exhalation of breath he makes from between his teeth.

A pentagram. 

“Kneel next to me,” Stiles says, pulling the dead animal out of the bag and cradling it in his hands for a moment. Derek is hesitating again, holding his candle, standing there like he’s paralyzed. It is clear that he’s bitten off more than he can chew, that he didn’t imagine being so…dark, like this, but it’s too late, either way. They’re here, and they’re doing this, and it’s already being set into motion whether he likes it or not. 

Derek kneels, right next to Stiles, so close their arms are almost touching. 

Stiles lays the dead raccoon on top of the casket gently, arranging its body just right, almost reverently, while Derek watches in silence, breathing in and out so loud Stiles can hear it. “When I open this book, it is very important that you don’t do anything to disrupt the circle,” he explains to Derek, who just nods, up and down, mute. “Anything you do that I don’t tell you to would ruin it, and we’d have to start all over again, and something tells me you don’t have it in you to go a second time.” 

Amazingly, while Derek would normally snort or make a snide comment about that, this time, he is silent. He stares at the book like it’s a hell demon, and in a way, it almost sort of is – Stiles doesn’t have time to deal with Derek’s cold feet, so he just sighs and runs his fingers along the binding of the book. 

Slowly, Stiles opens it. Just like last time, he feels the charge go through him like getting electrocuted, sticking his finger into a socket, jumping into a bath tub with a plugged in hair dryer. The air around him goes firm, as though it’s filled with energy instead of just oxygen and dust and dirt, and the whispering starts up. 

_Stiles_ , they say, again and again, calling his name from deep below. Derek hears it too, and he looks around, as though he expects to see them somewhere, hiding behind a tree, leaping out from behind a grave stone. _Again?_ They ask him. _Again, again, again?_

“It’s not for me,” he murmurs, and Derek looks at him like he’s crazy, insane, like _please do not talk to the demons_ , but Stiles ignores him. “I need a favor for a friend.” 

They whisper his name some more, all around him, as Stiles turns the pages. He gets to the spell he needs, the words written in blood from a hundred years ago or even longer, and he runs his fingers down the page. 

“Stiles,” this is Derek’s voice saying his name, now, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything. Just his name, and that’s it, like it’s all he can really manage to say for the moment. 

Stiles takes his jar of blood and opens it, spilling it slowly over the bones – like water over rocks. He clears his throat, leaning over the spell, and starts to read the Latin aloud a bit clunkily, because really, no one can actually speak Latin, not even witches. There’s a hissing noise in his ears, a low hum from inside the casket, the blood seeping into the earth like something is drinking it up.

The more he speaks, the more he feels like something is touching him. Not on his skin, but on the inside. Like something is trying to climb inside his body, to become one with him, to take this body for itself and use it to do whatever it wants. Stiles grits his teeth and powers forward, even as his voice shakes and the wind picks up, because he can do this. 

He’s done it before, and he will do it again. He will do it again. 

Something goes through him. It makes him double over, so his hands dig into the bones, blood all over his fingers, his wrists, all over him. He thinks Derek says something to him, but he can’t hear it. He just focuses on the spell, speaking the Latin even as it feels like something has got its hand around his throat. He can do this. 

The energy around them is taut, like it’s going to snap at any second. Stiles knows that they’re close. Any minute now, it’ll be over, and something will come out of that casket. He’s sure of it, even as he can feel tears in his eyes, his fingers digging into the dirt –

Derek reaches out and breaks the pentagram up. It happens so quickly Stiles can’t stop it, can’t even say anything to get him to stop. His hand comes, scattering the bones frantically, pushing the book away from Stiles like it’s caught fire, like it’s going to hurt him – everything stops. The candles go out, the wind stills, the air snaps like a rubber band, and it’s all…over. 

The broken energy is enough that it knocks Stiles over, so he flops over on the grass on his back, staring up at the night sky with dazed eyes.

For a moment, he doesn’t know what’s just happened – then, Derek speaks. “I can’t do it,” he says, his voice odd, in a way that Stiles has never heard it before. He sounds fucking freaked, like he’s going to start screaming at any second. “I can’t do it, I cannot do that, I –“ he swallows, as Stiles stares up at him from the grass, blinking. It occurs to Stiles then that Derek had broken the spell. That nothing is going to happen. That nothing is going to try and enter his body. “I can’t make you…”

Stiles is spent. He’s all worn out and heavy, and he can’t move. 

Abrupt and quick, Derek grabs him. Puts both hands on him and hefts him up onto his feet. Stiles stumbles a bit, can’t quite get his footing, so he leans against Derek and breathes out through his nose. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, or like it’s happening to someone else and Stiles is not really here. Broken spells are rough, really rough, almost as bad as successful ones – to build it up and to expend that much energy and to receive nothing back in return is a head trip. Stiles is useless as a rag doll, moving where Derek puts him. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

“But the –“ Stiles says. He reaches down, like he’s going to try and grab at his spell book, but Derek grabs his wrist and pushes it away. He is so strong and Stiles is so weak, so there’s no use in fighting it. Then, unthinkably, Derek is picking the book up himself and growling about it. 

“You don’t need this,” he is so mad, so fucking mad, and he’s ripping it up. Tearing at the pages, clawing at the leather, so it all flutters away in the wind, drifting off in pieces. 

“Derek that’s - _stop_ , that’s fucking –“ sacred, is what he wants to say. It’s been passed down through his family lineage. It has spells in there that aren’t written anywhere else. Ancient rituals that time has forgotten, kept only in the confines of that fucking book, and Derek has just destroyed it, sent it in pieces into the air like it’s nothing. 

Derek takes him by his shoulders. Looks him dead in the fucking eyes. His, big in his head, scared, angry. Stiles’ distant and glazed over. “It was going to kill you,” he’s dead serious when he says this. How would he know that? Without another word, he’s manhandling Stiles across the grass. They leave the raccoon, and the pieces of the book, and the candles, and all of it. They go, Derek forcing Stiles the entire way, half carrying him, and then Derek pushes him into the passenger seat of his fancy car.

Stiles rubs at his face, looks at his hands. His palms are bloody and dirty. He is shaky and unsure he’s even really here, right now. Is this real? Is this real? 

Derek gets in and slams the door behind him, immediately revving the engine and throwing it into reverse. He backs up, slinging his arm over as he glares over his shoulder. Once he’s in drive and headed out of the cemetery going thirty over the speed limit, he starts yelling. “What the hell are you doing messing around with this sort of shit?”

“You asked me to –“

“I didn’t know it was all that,” he is still yelling, impossibly loud in the tight confines of his car, while Stiles just sits there rubbing at his face some more. There’s blood on his face and his hands and his arms and he cannot find it in himself to care. “You didn’t say it was – I thought it was something that you did, not something that you have fucking hell’s minions do for you.” 

“What do you think magic is?” Stiles demands, curling his fingers as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoody. “You think it’s all a game, is that it?”

“Obviously not,” he slams on the brake as they come to a stoplight, sending Stiles flying against his seatbelt – which he hadn’t realized he had buckled up. He didn’t, actually. Derek must have done it for him. “What are you _doing_ , messing with that shit?”

Stiles is slowly starting to feel like a human being again. It might be the adrenaline from having a giant werewolf shouting at him and throwing him around like he’s a bean bag, but either way, his head is getting less foggy and he can actually feel his fingers. “You know what they say about me. I’m a dangerous dark witch with the power of Satan at my fingertips,” he wiggles his bloody fingers in the air like jazz hands, mocking and sarcastic with a roll of his eyes before thumping them back down onto his thighs. 

Derek looks at him. They are still idling at the stop light, the engine running, no one else around. Just them, just Derek’s eyes on him, and Stiles wonders what it is exactly that he sees in his passenger seat. “No, you are not,” he says, positive of it, sure of it, no questions asked. “You are nineteen years old and broke and all alone.”

This is the first time anyone has ever said something like that to him. That he isn’t bad, or evil, or a hell spawn, or some nightmare person who stalks the streets collecting rats to kill for his black magic spells. Stiles is dumbfounded by it for a moment, because no one has ever been around him for long enough to see him as anything else but what they say about him. 

“You are screwing around with things you don’t understand, it’s crystal fucking clear,” he switches gears and hits the gas, and again, they’re going too fast, way too fast, speeding through intersections. 

“Things I don’t understand?” Stiles decides to be offended, which is the easiest route to go. He doesn’t want to feel like Derek sees clean through him, or like Derek gets him on a level no one ever has, because it’s…Christ, it’s Derek Hale. “What you know about the black arts, I could fucking fit in the palm of my hand.”

“I know enough,” he shouts, and Stiles refuses to be shaken by it. Yes, he’s huge and he’s angry and he has the capability to kill Stiles like squishing a spider, but Stiles will not be afraid of him. He won’t give Derek the satisfaction. 

“Yet you came to me and practically begged me to –“

Derek hits a turn too hard. Stiles smacks up against the side of the car, because he hadn’t been holding onto anything. “I didn’t know you were like this,” he says, and Stiles is confused by that. That he was like what? Like what? 

“You wanted me to bring your mother back from the dead. Did you think that kind of ritual entailed holding hands and chanting Kumbayah until they gave us her soul back?”

The look Derek gives him in the wake of that is murderous, like any moment he’s going to reach over the center console to finally snap Stiles’ neck once and for all. 

“I’m not Sabrina the teenaged fucking witch, this isn’t a god damn movie where everything is sugarcoated. Magic is scary and terrible and I’m terrible for doing it, for having it inside of me,” he points to his chest, to his heart, where he imagines the thing is dead blue and black and purple and sick, tainted, hideous with darkness. “Maybe I’m not all that they say I am, but I am not some innocent kid you found on the streets. I’m not good.”

They are on Stiles’ street, finally. From here, Stiles can see the neon red light from his store spilling out across the road. Even farther down, he can see the glow of the lights from the werewolf bar where Derek half-lives. There is apparently nothing that Derek has to say back to anything that Stiles just said, because he just sits there with his jaw clamped shut, his eyes set ahead, as quiet as a corpse. 

Speaking of which…

“You’re just going to leave her out there?” He juts his thumb over his shoulder, as though to point at the casket they left out in the open for scavengers and animals to find and rip apart and eat. 

Derek slows to a stop on the curb outside of Stiles’ place, slamming the gear stick into park like he’s fucking furious about it. “That’s not her,” he says. “It’s just a body, not her.”

Right. Just a body, and nothing more. To Stiles, a body is sacred, a person’s last ties to the mortal world, something to be revered and kept safe. To Derek, and maybe all werewolves, it is nothing but a flesh vessel that carries around a soul. Or, maybe not even that. 

They sit there for a moment. Stiles drums his black painted fingernails on his jeans and purses his lips, because he doesn’t know if he’s meant to say or do anything. He had sort of built this whole thing up in his head, and then it hadn’t happened, and now he’s just stuck here with Derek in the wake of it all. Is there something he’s supposed to say?

“Welp,” he unbuckles and pops his door open, sighing through his nose. “That was a massive waste of my time. And I can’t give you your money back, because I already spent it. So…”

“Get out,” Derek commands him, like he’s super pissed at him or something, when really, Stiles hadn’t done anything wrong. “Just try not to be so fucking stupid.”

Stiles scoffs, irritated by these words and Derek’s attitude and Derek’s…everything. Every single thing about him is infuriating. “You are a complete dick.”

“What did you expect, a fucking pre-school teacher?” He growls this between grit teeth, and Stiles has to admit he’s got a point. Derek is a renowned psychopath that smokes ten packs of cigarettes a day because why not, covered in tattoos and a set of constantly bloody knuckles from punching other werewolves in the face for money. And Stiles thought for one moment he wouldn’t be the world’s biggest asshat? Right. 

“Whatever,” Stiles grouses as he climbs all the way out, slamming the door behind him. He honestly expects that Derek will speed off immediately, right as Stiles is onto the pavement of the sidewalk – but he doesn’t. He sits there, engine idling, his eyes staring directly at Stiles through the tinted windows of his car. Stiles frowns at him and turns on his heel, unlocking his door and looking over his shoulder to see that Derek is still there.

He stays there until Stiles is inside with the door closed behind him. Then, it’s not until Stiles is upstairs in his apartment with the door locked that he hears Derek’s engine finally pull away, off into the night, likely just down the street to the bar to drink all night long before going in for another long day of being crazy. 

Stiles sits down on the edge of his bed and looks at his hands. Bloody, dirty, a blade of grass or two stuck to his palms. This is not the first time his hands have ever looked like this, and likely will not be the last. What he had said to Derek was true. He is not a good person. He does terrible things. Magic has made him into a thing, not a human being. 

He was willing to do that spell even knowing Derek’s mother could not possibly come back right. He knew it from the start, that they would have to kill her, or whatever came back pretending to be her, and he had done it anyway. Risking his soul even more, risking his flesh and blood and body, all for a few fucking bucks. If Derek hadn’t of stopped him, that black mark on his arm would be taking up an entire half of his body, right now.

He lies down with his clothes on, staring at the ceiling. He wishes what Derek said was true. That he was just a kid.

**

It is a solid three weeks before Stiles sees Derek Hale again. Mostly, it’s spent scrounging together what he has left of the cash he got for the spell he didn’t complete, eating what food he has and attempting to make a living selling hand made candles to stupid humans on the internet. He makes enough to pay rent, at least, but then once it’s paid, he’s stuck digging around underneath his couch and between his furniture for change to get a hot pocket.

Business is pretty bad. If he had the money to do so, he’d set up shop across town where all the humans live and where he’d have a fighting chance – they don’t know who he is or that he’s evil or anything like that. They’d come flocking to get their fortunes told, because humans love idiotic shit like that, even if they don’t believe it’s real. As it is, he’d never dream of affording the real estate there, so he’s trapped trying to convince the supernaturals that he’s actually not half bad. He is, at least half, and they all know it. 

He goes to the diner a street or two up where the coffee is cheap as dirt because it’s absolutely horrible, and that’s where he spots Derek. Huddled in a booth towards the back with a full plate of food in front of him. He’s eating, and when he meets Stiles’ eyes across the way, he only glares for a moment before going right back to stuffing his face. 

It seems that Derek is going to be perfectly happy pretending like Stiles does not exist. Honestly, Stiles prefers it that way. Their last conversation and everything that precursored it was not exactly fun fun fun, not to mention the fact that Derek is one of the top three people around these parts to ardently avoid at all costs. He’s dangerous and unpredictable. And he has terrible fucking tattoos. 

Stiles ignores him right back, stalking up to the counter to plant himself down on one of the squishy stools. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the change he collected from his apartment, dumping it out and slowly counting it with black fingernails. He totals it up to two dollars and sixty seven cents with a sigh through his nose.

“Stiles,” the waitress knows him because he comes around often – she gives him a look, glancing between him and the change again and again. “There’s not much on the menu for that price.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The smell of the food in here makes his stomach growl, but he just orders a single black coffee and hunches over the counter with a miserable frown on his face. 

The coffee comes, and then all his change is taken away, and he’s back to being completely and totally flat fucking broke all over again. He’ll have money coming in within the next few days if he manages to sell anything off his online store, but a few days is a long time to wait for something to eat – he has taken to stealing bags of chips and packages of donuts from the gas station via slight of hand, but he thinks that the cashier is catching onto him, from the way his eyes follow Stiles like a hawk every time he comes in. 

Stiles sips his coffee, and it does absolutely nothing to quell his hunger. 

A plate of half-eaten chicken fried steak gets dumped onto the counter in front of the seat right beside him, followed by a big glass of water – Stiles looks up to see Derek Hale hovering over him, that ever present frown on his face, his brow furrowed. He looks pissed beyond all belief to see Stiles sitting here right now, as if he’s the one accosting Derek and not the other way around. “When is the last time you had a hot fucking meal?” He demands – he’s got a steak knife clasped in one hand. Stiles has half a mind to think he’ll be gutted with it at any second. 

Stiles clears his throat. “Sometime around last week,” he admits, as shamelessly as he can. His eyes dart to Derek’s food. The hash brown pile covered in ketchup, the one egg that Derek hasn’t eaten, his half consumed fried steak. Derek notices this instantly, and he probably hears Stiles’ stomach growl, too, which is humiliating on about ten different levels. 

“I’ll buy you food,” he grunts this out, lividly angry about it, even as he sits down in the space next to Stiles and gestures for the waitress’ attention. “What do you want?”

“Uh, no thanks,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I think I’ve had just about enough of the Derek Hale Charity Foundation, thank you very much.” 

“The money I gave you was not charity,” he snaps. “I paid you for a service.”

“Which you then did not allow me to complete.”

“A deal is a deal,” he stabs into his egg and slices off a huge bite, shoving it into his mouth. Then, he talks with his mouthful, like a werewolf from television come to life. “Everyone in this room can hear your body eating itself alive and it’s unpleasant – I’ll buy you a meal.” 

Stiles watches the food roll around in Derek’s wide open gob with a grimace. “I’m the unpleasant one, huh?” 

The waitress has finally come after Derek’s insistent gesturing, approaching the two of them with a weary expression on her face, like she cannot imagine what these two boys could possibly want from her. Derek gestures to her, and then to Stiles, still chewing. “What do you want?”

“I said no –“

“And I said I’m _buying you fucking food_ ,” he slams his fist down on the counter, hard enough that all the plates and silverware on top of it rattle – the waitress jumps, unnerved, because she’s smart enough to be afraid of someone like Derek Hale, after all. Stiles isn’t, so he just blinks and frowns, staring down into his coffee. 

After a moment of silence, he looks up at her and sighs through his nose. “Grilled cheese with bacon,” he mutters, embarrassed by all of this, and she looks between the two of them with wide eyes one more time. She likely is wondering how these two even came to know each other, let alone to be in a situation where one is buying the other something to eat. But she goes to tell the kitchen anyway, and then it’s just Derek and Stiles sitting there by themselves. 

Derek eats and eats, bite after bite, like a machine. It becomes clear after the first five minutes that he’s not going to say anything. Not a fucking word. Stiles is not very good at dealing with awkward silences. He finds himself always needing to fill them with something, his mind always whirring, always coming up with something to say just to escape the silence. So he says, “you don’t need to buy me food like I’m some little pet project you’ve taken on.”

A gigantic bite, steak and sausage gravy and hash browns all piled onto his fork, gets shoved into Derek’s mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Stiles goes on. “I told you before, I’m not so innocent that I need some big werewolf to look after me.” 

“You’re not innocent,” Derek agrees, reaching out to grab his water. He glugs it down, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you are incredibly stupid.” 

“You know, you’ve said that several times now. That I’m stupid. I’m really not.”

“That’s why you’ve got an apartment in the werewolf quarter of town where everyone wants to kill you, because you’re so smart, huh?”

Stiles wants to hit him. He wants to reach out and punch him in the fucking face, because he is so smug in the way he talks. If Stiles wasn’t positive it would be like trying to punch an iron wall, he would do it. “Where would you have me go? I don’t really fit in anywhere, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.”

As far as Stiles knows, he’s the only witch around. His mother was a witch, but she…anyway, there aren’t a ton of people around here that are like him. Or any. 

Derek has no answer to that question, because he says nothing. He just finishes his food and then places his silverware down on top of his plate with a clink, again wiping his mouth with his hand instead of the napkin that’s five inches away from his hand. Stiles rolls his eyes and thinks he has never in his life met a werewolf that more perfectly encapsulates the stereotype. Just a giant brute with no manners. 

Stiles’ food comes and he perks up the second he sees it, trailing the waitress’ walk to him with his eyes like an animal in the wild stalking his prey. It gets set down in front of him, and before it’s barely all the way on the counter, he’s grabbing at his sandwich and shoving half of it into his mouth. His first bite is huge, gargantuan – he almost can’t chew it all at once. He manages. Before he can fully swallow it, he’s onto the next, then the next. It’s the first real meal he’s had in days, and it shows. 

Derek watches him. It’s only until Stiles is starting in on his second half of sandwich that he finally pipes up. “What are you living off of?”

Stiles hiccups. “Whatever I find.”

“Can’t you just…” he waves his hand vaguely, “do a spell to give yourself a hundred million dollars or something?”

Stiles would laugh if he didn’t have a mouth full of food. He swallows it and says, “you have a fundamental misunderstanding about what magic is. That kind of spell would be in the _sell your soul to the prince of darkness_ category, and really, it is not worth it. An eternity burning in a hell dimension really is not worth earthly satisfaction, trust me.” 

Derek stares at him some more. That unnerving stare. “Anything that actually makes magic useful is bad magic?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, going in for the fries now that his sandwich is gone. “Selfish magic is bad magic, you know what I mean? Altering the fabric of reality, messing with the natural order. You know?” Likely, Derek doesn’t, because he just sits there blinking like this is all going straight over his head. “Tons of money for yourself, a mansion for yourself. Bringing a dead person back for your own peace of mind…it’s selfish. It’s unnatural.”

“If you think it’s so selfish that I wanted my mother back alive, why did you even try to do that for me in the first place?” 

Stiles swallows and stares at his food. This is shameful for him to admit, even to someone like Derek, so he can’t look him directly in the face as he says it. “I needed the money.”

“I can see that.”

His food is all gone. He had practically inhaled it – it’s been maybe five minutes since it was set down in front of him, and now it’s all gone. Stiles picks at the crumbs still left, licking them off his fingers. Derek watches that, too, eyes tracking every single movement like a hawk. It would be creepy, but Stiles is starting to get used to Derek’s unnerving staring. “Why couldn’t you do it?”

“Do what?” 

“The spell,” Stiles turns and looks at him – eye contact. Derek sighs through his nose, lips curving downward into an even bigger frown than before. “Why did you stop me?”

Derek reaches into his pocket to produce his wallet. It’s all old and beat up like he’s not as rich as a werewolf can possibly get, like he doesn’t really care about money or nice things or any of it. He drops two twenties down onto the counter and stands – so Stiles thinks he really won’t get an answer to his question. 

But he does. “I couldn’t make you do that,” he says, with a shrug. “They wanted to hurt you. I’m not much for watching idiotic humans get their souls sucked out.” 

“I’m not human,” Stiles corrects, voice low.

“Take all the hocus pocus bullshit away, and you’re weak, skinny, and defenseless,” he shrugs again. “You are not so tough.” 

Without another word, he leaves. Stiles is left sitting there staring at his retreating back, at the tattoo on the nape of his neck of a snake curling up into his hairline.


	2. In Tyler We Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this chapter are probably just gratuitous violence and brief suicidal ideation. I don’t think it’s too gruesome because I can’t handle too gruesome myself so I doubt I could write it lmfaoo

Stiles pockets a pack of donuts with a crinkle, shoving them deep into the pocket of his hoody. He keeps his eyes scanning the rows of snacks in front of him so he looks like he’s just considering which to get, hemming and hawing as he reaches out and nabs a chocolate bar to stuff in with the donuts. It’s not the healthiest meal on the face of the planet, but at this point he’d eat roadkill off the highway just to stop being hungry.

Has actually done so, before. Not his proudest moment. But, he is a creature of the night, after all. 

He sighs through his nose and rolls his eyes, like there’s just nothing here that he wants, shaking his head as he slowly starts to make his way toward the way he came in. The guy behind the counter, a very severe looking werewolf who taps his fingers incessantly on the counter either all the time or just when Stiles the hell beast sets foot in his corner mart, glares at him. He seems to be waiting for Stiles to approach the counter and pay for something.

When Stiles makes a sharp left for the door instead of offering to pay for a single thing, the werewolf’s nostrils flare and he abruptly starts waving his hands at him. Aggressively. “Where do you think you’re off to?”

Stiles stops in his tracks. He’s got both of his hands shoved deep into his hoody, his fingers rubbing against the packaging for the donuts and chocolate. “Uh, home?”

“I don’t think so,” he gestures with his fingers for Stiles to come forward. “Empty your pockets.”

“What?” Stiles feigns innocence, eyes going all big in his head. He knows that while he may be young and pathetic looking to some, those who know what he really is, like this guy, do not buy his innocent act for a single second. But it is still worth a try. “What are you –“

“You have been robbing this store blind for months,” a big meaty finger gets pointed directly at him, while Stiles looks aghast. “Empty. Your. Pockets.”

“That’s a tall accusation,” Stiles scoffs, shaking his head again like he just can’t believe it, it’s all so ridiculous, impossible, ludicrous. 

“You come in, you lurk, you buy nothing, you leave,” he ticks each of these points off on his fingers, counting them off like he’s making a grocery list. 

“I do not _lurk_ –“

“You know what? I didn’t want to have to do this,” he reaches down below, and for a fraction of a second Stiles is certain he’s about to have a gun pulled on him, which would be really unfortunate for all parties involved. But it’s not a gun, after all. “…but you have left me no choice.”

He thwaps a small object down on top of the counter in between their bodies and gestures to it, while Stiles stares down and raises his eyebrows. It’s a big pile of mugwort, tied together by a string. Clearly he went out to the farmer’s market and headed straight for the anti-witch booth, picked himself up some of this, and now haughtily expects Stiles to flee before the sight of it. 

Stiles can’t help it. He laughs. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Historically, yes, mugwort has been known to be a sort of kryptonite for witches, it is true – but only if someone were to, like, hold him down and force feed it to him. Waving it around in front of his face without it even touching him isn’t going to do a god damn thing. 

All the same, the shop owner does just that. He picks it up, waves it around in Stiles’ direction, angry. When Stiles just stands there with his hands still in his pockets, smirking and cocking his head to the side, he gets angry and waves it around harder. 

Stiles pulls one of his hands out and snaps his fingers. Instantly, what had been a pile of herbs turns into a rat. The werewolf shrieks in terror as one second he’s holding a plant and the next he’s gripping a rat’s tail with a live creature twisting around in the air – he throws it in shock, so the rat takes off running past Stiles’ feet down the aisle, likely to find a snack somewhere in the shelves or at least a good hiding spot. 

When before the werewolf had been irritated with Stiles, now it would seem Stiles has gone and made him completely fucking livid. Wolves don’t like spells to begin with, but especially not when magic is conducted at their own fucking expense, and this is made crystal clear when the wolf’s eyes flash red and he begins to leap over the counter with the clear intent of doing bodily harm upon Stiles.

Stiles is quick, so he moves to make a break for it before the wolf even knows what happened – but then, as he is want to do, Derek Hale materializes. 

He’s in the doorway suddenly, so Stiles smacks right into his chest on his way out the door. Stiles looks up, sees Derek’s stone-serious face, his bad tattoos and his frown, and can’t help but smirk right up at him. “Is there a problem here?” Derek asks.

The convenience store owning werewolf who had only seconds before been making a valiant attempt on Stiles’ life is now just on his knees on top of his counter, frozen still at the sight of Derek. As though just Derek’s mere existence is enough to stop him dead in his tracks. 

Stiles clears his throat. “I wasn’t stealing.”

Derek looks at him. He looks at him, and knows that Stiles certainly was stealing, that he was in here taunting the shop owner, doing magic and creating an entire scene when it perhaps would’ve been easier to just turn over the contraband and go on his merry way. Derek is positive that if there is a problem, which there very clearly is, then Stiles is responsible for it.

All the same, Derek looks at the other werewolf, and his stony expression does not change. “He says he wasn’t stealing.”

“But he –“ he starts, and then quickly closes his mouth. Derek is on Stiles’ side, and Derek has proven time and time again that his side is the winning side in all fights and arguments, so it does not matter what really happened here. The other wolf changes trajectories away from trying to prove Stiles as a thief and a liar, instead climbing down off the counter and pointing that big meaty finger in Stiles’ direction again. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, socializing with that _thing_ ,” that ‘thing’ meaning Stiles, of course, “but it’s a fucking death with, Hale.” 

Derek shrugs his shoulders, slow and deliberate. “I’ve got enough of those already,” he says. Stiles hastily ducks around Derek to get out of the store, vowing to never return again and to find a new place to lift snacks from next time he gets hungry. Out in the chilly night air, he pulls his donuts out and quickly rips open the packaging, grabbing at the first one and shoving it into his mouth unceremoniously.

Christ, he’s hungry. 

There are footsteps, heavy and quick, coming up behind him, but Stiles barely pays them any mind. He knows it’s Derek, and he knows he’s sure to be on the receiving end of one of Derek’s idiotic lectures, but all he can focus on is getting food into his mouth and then his stomach. 

Derek sidles up beside him and looks mad. Which is par for the course. “All that for a packet of mini donuts?”

Stiles swallows. “And a kit kat bar.”

Derek makes a face and watches as Stiles eats two mini donuts at once, shoveling them in and chewing until his jaw starts to hurt from the force of it. Derek slows to a stop, so Stiles does too, mirroring him as they hover in the middle of the sidewalk under a street light. “You know, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Blah blah blah.”

“Robbing werewolves is a really great way to find yourself missing a spine.”

Stiles licks donut sugar off of his fingers and raises his eyebrows, while Derek watches this like a hawk. “You’ll have to hang up missing person fliers for me, then. Missing : one witch’s spine. Reward : Derek Hale’s leather jacket.”

Derek does not laugh, even though this is obviously very funny. Stiles snorts and shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, because really, none of this ultimately matters. It’s all just…part of Stiles’ life, the things he has to do, and what does it matter? “You should eat something real,” he says, gruff, frowning and narrowing his eyes. “I’ll take you to the diner.”

“I’m good,” Stiles pulls his kit kat bar out of his pocket and waves it around, like it’s a roast chicken or something of equal substance. 

For whatever reason, this makes Derek completely fucking livid. Like, mad mad, big mad, huge mad. He rips the chocolate out of Stiles’ hand and tosses it aside, much to Stiles’ dismay. Ignoring Stiles’ indignant squawk of _hey!!!_ , Derek grabs Stiles by his upper arms and shakes him, just once, hard enough that Stiles’ teeth chatter. 

“You are going to wind up starving to death or with your limbs ripped off your fucking body, and I’m getting a little tired of having to constantly make sure neither of those things are happening,” he growls, right into Stiles’ face, so Stiles feels his breath all hot and thick on his face. It smells like liquor and cigarettes, and something else, that’s just him. 

“Who says you have to?” Stiles barks back at him, and Derek’s hands tighten just slightly on Stiles’ arms. 

Instead of answering that question, Derek looks at him. “You don’t burn me when I touch you anymore?”

Stiles sighs through his nose. “I figured if you wanted to hurt me you would’ve done so by now.”

Truly, Stiles came to the conclusion that Derek isn’t much for harming people who can’t defend themselves against him long ago. Stiles has seen him rough around werewolves tons of times, yes, but that’s it. No humans, no stupid witches he seems to constantly run into all the time, nobody. He likes to threaten it, yes, but then he seems to be a whole lot of bark and not that much bite, especially where Stiles is concerned. 

Derek lets go of Stiles, taking a single step back. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, so Stiles notices his knuckles are bloody from a fight. “You want a fucking hamburger, or not?”

Stiles’ kit kat bar landed in a puddle some ten feet away, so that’s out of the question, and he has no more mini donuts left. His stomach is still growling, because he hasn’t eaten anything of substance in days, and Derek knows that. Derek has also proven himself to be the king of not taking no for an answer, so Stiles feels his cheeks color with shame as he lowers his neck and nods once, tight and terse. 

Without another word, Derek leads the way down the dimly lit sidewalk to the diner only a couple of blocks away. Stiles sidles along beside him and keeps his hands dug deep into his pockets, because truthfully, he isn’t sure what to do with them. Derek is mute silent and serious, and Stiles has no fucking idea how to be around someone who’s like that, so his hands clam up and he frowns and shrinks in on himself a bit.

At the diner, they slide into opposite sides of a booth and then stare at one another. Derek seems content to just sit there staring, but it makes Stiles uncomfortable because he’s not a weird werewolf with no sense of social graces, so he clears his throat and starts talking. “I know I’ve said it before, but you really don’t have to mother hen me.”

“Mother hen,” Derek repeats, toneless. 

“Like I’m a lost little baby chick who needs help getting nursed back to health,” he explains, toying with the edge of the menu in front of him. “Believe it or not, some of the rumors are actually true. I’m a powerful witch.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, like he either doesn’t believe it or could care less or both. He seems to be entirely more interested in staring at Stiles’ collarbones, for whatever reason, so Stiles nervously fiddles with his v-neck and shifts uncomfortably. 

The waitress comes with a perplexed expression on her face, looking between the boys like she almost cannot believe she’s seeing them here. “You two again,” she says, reaching into her apron pocket to produce her order pad and a pen. “It’s not everyday you see a wolf and a witch.”

“Chicken fried steak,” Derek barks at her, like conversation with her just isn’t interesting to him in the least bit. “Eggs over medium.”

“Chicken fried steak again,” she mutters, jotting it down with a roll of her eyes. “I’d say eating that too many times will kill you, but…well.”

Derek frowns at her. 

“Um,” Stiles clears his throat and sits up straighter, so she swivels her eyes onto him. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with extra cheese and fries, please.”

She writes that down too, shaking her head like this entire thing is ridiculous to begin with, and then stalks away without another word. Likely, she’s irritated because Derek is a complete fuckbag with no manners whatsoever, and she apparently has to deal with him more often than she’d ever like to. “Please and thank you go a long way, you know.”

“I just caught you knocking over a fucking gas station mini mart for some tiny donuts, and you’re condescending down to me about manners.” 

“Chewing with your mouth closed is a good one, too.”

Derek glares at him and seems to be thinking that ever having met Stiles in the first place was a massive fucking mistake. 

“But I guess if I were an immortal werewolf with no family or friends, I too would shirk the rules of the modern world and just become a brutish asshole.” 

“Immortal is not the right word,” he says, staring at Stiles’ collarbones again. “I can certainly die of old age. I just can’t be killed.”

“Impervious,” Stiles snaps his fingers – as he does so, the light above their head flickers out with a fizzle from the lightbulb. Stiles makes a sheepish face and smirks. “Whoops.”

“Impervious,” Derek agrees, looking up at the now dead lightbulb. “That is the right word. What’s a good word for you? Annoying.”

“Annoying, sure,” Stiles agrees, a smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth.

Derek lowers his eyes back to look at Stiles again – collarbones, jaw, then eye contact. But he doesn’t say anything. Just stares, unblinking, serious and somewhat detached. 

Stiles can’t deal with that kind of silence, so he clears his throat and averts his eyes away from Derek’s gaze, choosing instead to focus on watching the cook in the kitchen move back and forth over the grill, flipping this, pushing that, on and on. “Do you like it?”

“Like what?”

“The whole unkillable thing. I mean, it’s sort of cool.”

Derek makes a face, like Stiles is being annoying or stupid or both. “I can’t even kill myself,” he says, and Stiles realizes that Derek means that he’s tried before, maybe more than once, to kill himself, and Stiles does not know quite what to do with that statement. Derek is not the sort of person who one offers condolences or kind words to, and even if he were, Stiles wouldn’t know where to start. 

“Do you know, like, why?”

“Why?”

“Why you’re this way,” he explains, gesturing to Derek up and down. The bloody knuckles that are healing over with fresh skin, the tattoos, the exhausted bags under his eyes, the entire package. “None of your family was, so why?”

“It’s a curse,” he says, with a shrug, and Stiles is almost surprised by the directness of him. “Someone did this to me, as if I deserved it. It’s pretty good revenge.”

Stiles bites his lip. He had never known that before. Curses generally leave a mark, like Stiles’ scar on his arm, but Stiles had never noticed any such mark on Derek before because…well. He’s sort of covered in marks as it is. Snakes and spiders and weird designs, all manner of interesting colors and such. One of them, maybe the black band on his arm or the red and purple splotches near his neck, is the mark of a curse. Maybe he had been trying to cover it up, with all these tattoos. 

“Revenge for what?”

Derek taps his fingers on the table top. He looks like he wants to light a cigarette really badly, but the waitress probably wouldn’t like that very much, so he doesn’t. “It’s an ex girlfriend thing.”

While Stiles has known the story of Derek’s family burning to death for a very long time now, he had never actually stopped to wonder why all that may have happened to begin with. All he knew is that someone had done it and it was no accident, and that everyone save for Derek and the one sister who was not home at the time, had died. In a big fiery way. He never asked why or how or what the point of it all was – mostly, because Derek is an asshole. Why wonder?

Stiles knows an _I’m sorry_ or even _a gee that sucks_ would get him nowhere with Derek, and he even more knows that Derek does not want to hear it and would gain nothing from the pleasantry. Derek isn’t that kind of person. 

“I’ve shot myself in the head, hung myself, driven my car into the ocean, you name it,” he lists this all off like it’s nothing, doesn’t even matter, is all inconsequential anyway, but Stiles is shocked. “I live through it all. It’s not cool. Believe me.”

Stiles swallows a lump in his throat, trying to erase the image of Derek blowing his own brains out from his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

A moment of silence passes over them. That was heavy, heavy stuff. 

“Why did you want to bring your mother back?” Stiles asks him, and in spite of the severity of the question itself, Derek actually snorts a laugh, as though anything about it could possibly be funny. 

He says, “you know why.”

That, Stiles can understand. Trapped in this world that will not let him leave no matter what he does, carrying around all this pain and torment, spending his waking hours fighting to the death for others’ entertainment, with no one left in his life. All alone.

It’s the same reason Stiles had to try to bring his dad back, absolutely had to try, no matter the consequence. To be all alone here was a miserable existence. Unlivable. Loneliness is the worst thing that anyone can go through, and Derek goes through it every single fucking day, and so does Stiles. 

The food comes, and Stiles is hungry enough to focus in on just that for a while, methodically eating without having to say another word about any more of these things.

**

Down on the farthest edge of what has long been known as the werewolf part of Beacon Hills, breaching in pretty close to the woods that seem to stretch out as far as the ocean, especially on a night as dark as this one, there’s an old warehouse that Stiles has never set foot in before. He’s walked past it before, blessedly only in the daylight where no one could kill him, but the few windows are covered over with newspapers and cardboard, so he’s never so much as gotten a peek at what goes on inside of it.

In the afternoon, it’s just a building. Square, plain, bland, old, dilapidated. In the night time, like right now, it’s more menacing. A dark blob that blocks out the moon and is covered with tree branches and vines, surrounded by a crowd of what most people in civilized society would very unaffectionately refer to as _bottom feeders_. Stiles fits in at the same time that he doesn’t, hovering on the curb with his hands stuffed into his pockets, hood on, frowning up at the building and daring himself to approach it. 

People notice him and turn to stare, because many of them know who he is, or many are werewolves and can smell it all over him even if they didn’t know who he was on looks alone. One thing Stiles hates about himself, or one of the very many things that he hates about himself, is how much he doesn’t really belong anywhere. For all that he’s broke, lost, alone, and grungy, he should fit in like a glove with these people. He’s got piercings and tattoos and black painted finger nails and he’s got ripped jeans, just like everyone else here. 

But he’s really not the same as any of them. He’s _other_. Always has been. That is the price of magic. 

With a big huff, he takes the plunge. He moves forward and people sort of clear a path for him, sneering at him and scoffing like they nearly can’t believe he’s come here, of all places. Truth be told, Stiles can barely believe he’s fucking here either, because long ago, sometime around when the first werewolf ever tried to rip him apart when he was a kid, he swore he’d rather chew glass than come around here. 

All the same, here he stands. Meandering through a crowd of humans and wolves alike, and god knows what else, really, trying to make himself seem either as inoffensive or as tough as he can possibly can. Most of them genuinely believe him to be an agent of Satan, so of course, they part like the Red Sea, staring and blowing smoke in his direction. 

At the door, there’s a very annoyed looking girl chewing bubble gum and staring at everyone as they pass through into the building. She looks relatively normal, aside from the big tattoo on her neck that instantly marks her a werewolf to anyone who knows what they’re looking for – it’s a snake, just like the one Derek has on his. 

Stiles plans on skirting right past her and heading into the fray, but she holds her hand out right as he’s about to cross through the threshold. Stiles stops, raising his eyebrows. The hand is slender, feminine, and has got acrylic pink nails, but something tells Stiles that this is a hand that can do some serious damage, life ending damage, if it ever felt the need to.

“I don’t think we let witches in,” she says, tone clipped. 

Stiles blinks at her. “How would you know? I’m the only one around.”

She chews her gum and pulls her hand back against her side, looking him up and down. Stiles can only imagine what she sees in his torn up hoody and dirty old converse, but she clearly doesn’t like it, because her lip curls in disgust. “I just know. Get outta here,” she points behind him, to the tree line and the rest of the crowd, all of them probably watching this and relishing in him being kicked out of the single seediest club in town for doing absolutely nothing but existing. 

Stiles squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. “I know Derek Hale,” he says, and this catches her full attention. She looks at him, eyes very calculating, and tries to stare directly into his very mortal fucking soul. “Uh – I know him sorta personally.”

She flicks a red curl over her shoulder and makes a face – coupled with a short scoff, like she’s laughing at him. “You know Derek Hale.”

“Uh, yup.”

“Personally.”

“Yes.”

“You know Derek Hale on a personal level.”

“Look, I sorta know him, is all,” truthfully, Stiles is not entirely sure how to qualify his relationship with the guy. Friends isn’t true at all, and acquaintances seems too small a word also, but then…what are they? There isn’t an answer to that question, so Stiles evades her eye contact and shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “He said I should, uh, come.”

She gives him another one of those incredulous looks, a big up and down sweep, even as she pops her gum between her teeth. “Derek Hale told you to come here.”

Not exactly. Or, not really at all. “Yes,” he insists, standing up as straight as he can. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters, and then pinches the bridge of her nose like she both cannot believe this, and is also entirely unsurprised that Derek has gone and gotten himself acquainted with the single most undesirable person within a hundred mile radius. She lets loose this long suffering sigh, like she’s exhausted of having to deal with Derek’s hoodwinks all the fucking time, and then makes a very furious jerking gesture with her neck, toward the door and the crowd inside of it. “Just try not to piss anyone off and wind up as an appetizer, all right?”

Stiles smiles, all teeth. “I think you know I can handle myself.” It’s why she didn’t want him in there in the first place.

She bares her teeth at him in a mockery of his own smile, snarking out a “whatever,” and then Stiles moves inside. The second he’s through the big door, inside all the way, moving in a small crowd through a dank, dark hallway, he gets this very, very clear feeling. He’s used to having clear feelings, the unbidden de ja vu sense of something being very right or very wrong – this one is no different. 

He gets the idea that he’s supposed to be here. Funny, he figured it would’ve been the other way around. 

The hallway ends, and then Stiles is thrust into the thick of it. It’s sort of exactly how he would’ve pictured it, if he ever would’ve spent any time imagining it at all. It’s this huge room, barely lit at all because most of the people in here can see just fine without needing to shine bright fluorescence on everything, with concrete walls and concrete floors that have blood stains all over them. There’s a bar, because of course there is, and people crowd around it drinking and smoking. Off on the other side of the room there’s a table with a couple of big guys standing behind it, where the money is being passed around and bets are being made. It reeks like piss and vomit and werewolf, werewolf, werewolf, everywhere, floor to ceiling. 

Stiles hovers off to the side and isn’t sure what the hell he’s supposed to be fucking doing here. He can’t got to the bar, because he bets that without Derek here to vouch for him these particular werewolf bartenders will not think twice about refusing to serve him. He certainly doesn’t know anyone in this crowd to go make a conversation with. It’s loud, with people talking and obnoxious heavy metal music blaring from big speakers in the corners of the room.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and stands. Unbelievably, people don’t bother him too much. They give him a wide berth, yes, and eyeball him up and down like they suspect him to be a ghost or something, but no one says a single fucking word to him. No taunting, no comments about how witch’s bones make good bread, none of it. 

Stiles wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that he dropped Derek’s name at the door, or that Derek has publicly, multiple times now, displayed the fact that he doesn’t care very much for people knocking Stiles around. And as has been proven several times before, many hundreds of fucking times in this very room, Derek is not someone to be messed with, and neither are his…friends. Or acquaintances. Or whatever Stiles really is, to him. 

After about five minutes of his awkward hovering like a fucking bat in a tree, the lights dim, and the crowd sort of reacts the way a crowd might when the lights go out at a Beyonce’ concert, right before she comes out. They cheer and clap and sort of move, a big ocean of people, to create a kind of circle in the middle of the room.

Stiles is surprised. He would’ve thought there’d be an actual, like, ring. Like in the boxing movies. Big flood lights, bleachers, a referee or something. But there’s nothing – just a crowd, forming a circle. Low budget is one word for it. 

“What is this, fucking fight club?” He mutters to himself, looking around. It’s dark, dingy, cement, like they’re really in some guy’s basement. It literally is fight club. Without Brad Pitt. Or, maybe just with a Brad Pitt _type_.

Stiles doesn’t have super good eye sight, so he has to squint to see in the dim lights, standing up on his tip toes to try and get a better view over the broad werewolf shoulders in front of him. There’s someone in the middle of the circle, now, just one big guy, and it isn’t Derek, but it’s definitely a werewolf, snake tattoo and all. He hasn’t got a shirt on, which makes Stiles snort because he’s thinking about fight club again, and his jeans are slung low on his hips. He’s a hot guy type, as most werewolves do ultimately tend to be, sort of like in Twilight. Sure, there are some normal looking ones, but for the most part, they all sort of look like this. 

Big, beefy, dreamboat looking guys. And intense, sexy, otherworldly looking women. 

He’s just sort of standing there. He’s drinking a beer out of glass bottle, swigging on it again and again, like he’s trying to get himself really drunk really fast, and everyone stands there cheering watching him do it. Stiles feels, very distinctly, like he’s standing on the set of a Wes Craven film. But, like, a really boing one. 

Then, Derek shows up. There’s not very much pomp and circumstance to it, like Stiles would’ve expected. No one gets on a microphone and starts introducing him as _the amazing, the incredible, the unkillable, the impervious to all forged weapons, Derek Hale_. He simply materializes from somewhere in the crowd, stepping into the circle with the other wolf, and he, also, is not wearing a shirt. It’s the first time Stiles has ever gotten a really good look at his body since they met, and it’s…well, you know. Not half bad to look at, we’ll leave it at that. He has such god awful tattoos, but the skin and torso that they’re inked upon certainly aren’t god awful at all. 

There’s no _one, two, three_ count. No one rings a bell. Derek walks into the circle, people cheer for him, and then the fighting starts. Maybe Derek has fought so many times he just doesn’t care anymore, or maybe he’s tired of the fanfare of it all, and he just wants to get it over with. One second he’s just standing there, and then the next, he’s fighting. 

It’s par for the course, at first. Stiles has seen many a werewolf fight in his day – mostly just in passing. He doesn’t usually stick around to stand there and watch it, though. Derek punches the other wolf in the face, gets punched back, they wrestle one another for a second. 

It gets interesting, if one were to call it that, when Derek gets that beer bottle smashed directly into his face. Interesting, sure. Horrific, also. There’s lots of blood, tons of it, more than Stiles has ever seen, and there’s broken glass in Derek’s face, and people…love it. It makes Stiles wince, put his hand over his face, peeking between two fingers with a twist to his mouth. Everyone else claps and hoots and hollers, but it’s terrible, and Stiles feels the need to walk away. 

It only gets worse from there. Stiles always knew that werewolves did pretty terrible things to each other, because they’re animals at best and sadists at worst, and they can heal anyway, so what does it matter? But this is…more than his imagination could’ve come up with. He hears the sound of bones breaking, and it’s horrible, enough to nearly make him puke, especially when he gets a peek of white bone sticking out of a bloody part of Derek’s arm. It’s not just punching or kicking or any of that, nothing like what’s on the WWE. 

There’s so much blood, so fucking much, and it doesn’t seem to ever end. Because there’s no ring, nothing to keep them separated from the crowd itself, some of the spectators wind up with the wolves getting pushed into them, sending their drinks spilling and cigarettes flying. 

At one point, Derek takes a lit cigarette to the other guys’ face. That is the precise moment that Stiles thinks he’s seen just about enough. He turns on his heel and heads for the bar, where there isn’t a line anymore because everyone is too busy watching this nightmare come to life. He doesn’t try to order anything. He just plops down on one of the stools and stares down at the bar top, frowning down at it and trying to ignore the sounds. No human fight has ever gone on this long. Usually someone is dead before it gets this bad. 

But then…well, of course. These aren’t normal people. 

Finally, it ends. Derek wins. Stiles does not know if that means that the other werewolf is dead or if he’s just conceded defeat, because truth be told, he is too afraid to turn around and find out. He doesn’t know if he could deal with seeing some dead mangled body lying there on the floor while everyone cheers like this is the bloody Roman Empire. Holy hell, maybe they are in the Roman Empire – it’s starting to feel more and more like that every day. 

The lights come back on so Stiles can see better. When he turns around, the crowd is dispersing, some of them headed over to that big table with all the stacks of money to collect their winnings, some of them coming right towards the bar where Stiles is hiding out. 

He stands, moving out of the way of the throngs of werewolves looking for a beer, and goes towards the wall where he won’t be stampeded. He leans up against it and sighs through his nose, rubbing up and down his face as though trying to scrub the memories of what he just saw clean out of his head. It doesn’t help very much that the crowd clearing up affords him a near perfect view of the giant puddle of blood in the middle of the room.

Bloody shoe prints from Derek and the other guy, bloody hand print, blood, blood, blood. 

Stiles has half a mind to just up and leave here and now, because really he’s seen just about enough of this nonsense and he does not think he will ever fucking set foot in this place again as long as he lives – then, he spots Derek. Across the room, sitting in a folding chair, wearing a shirt, getting the glass picked out of his face by a werewolf that looks closer to Stiles’ age. He considers leaving anyway, but he came to see Derek for whatever reason that he did, and there Derek is, so he sighs through his nose and pushes himself up and away from the wall.

He keeps a healthy distance between himself and the blood puddle, skirting along through the crowd of people animatedly rehashing the entire fight bit by bit like it’s a movie they saw and not a nightmare come to life. The closer he gets, the more fucked up Derek looks. There’s glass in his head, a big gash on the other side of it, deep cuts running along his arms, that piece of broken bone still sticking out through his skin. Stiles grits his teeth and stuffs his hands into his pockets again, pushing his hood down so that when he approaches, Derek will know for sure that it’s him.

Derek glances at him, as a huge piece of amber glass is ripped out of his cheek. Then, does a double take. 

He stands from his chair, pushing away the hands of the kid who was helping him clean up much to their dismay, and heads right for Stiles. They wind up meeting in the middle, so Stiles stops in his tracks and puts a grim smile on his face. 

“What are you fucking doing here?” Derek demands. Stiles is used to this sort of greeting from the man, so he just shrugs. “This is a really good place to get your fucking head smashed in, you know that, don’t you?”

“Everywhere in this town is a really good place to get my fucking head smashed in,” he counters, lifting a single brow. Derek still seems incredibly put out; it’s made worse by how badly he’s still bleeding. Even with accelerated healing, these are deep, deep wounds, and he looks…like hell. 

“How did you even get in here?”

Stiles smirks. “I dropped your name at the door.”

Derek reaches up and pulls a big hunk of glass out of his own face, maybe one of the last bits still in there, and throws it down onto the ground in a bloody heap. “And that worked.”

Stiles gestures to himself, and then to the room at large, like, _look, here I am, in the flesh, in this shithole, so yes, yes it certainly did work_. 

“What are you doing here?” Derek repeats, looking Stiles up and down as though he’s scanning for evidence that werewolves have been roughing him up ever since he got here. “I thought you said you’d never come here.”

“Well,” he scratches at his cheek and shrugs. Over Derek’s shoulder, he can see that the glass-pulling kid is sitting there watching this entire interaction with a confused look on his face, like he never in his life would’ve imagined Derek would be talking to Stiles, of all people on this earth. “I just wanted to see it for myself.” 

“Uh huh,” Derek is staring at Stiles’ collarbones again. Stiles is beginning to wonder what all that is about. “And what did you think?”

Stiles isn’t really one to mince words, so he tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth when he says, “I think it’s a horrifying fucking nightmare.” 

“What _I_ do is a horrifying nightmare?” Derek cocks his head to the side, looking at Stiles very critically. “Aren’t you the king of all that sort of stuff? Nightmares and death?”

“Not like this.”

“You just deal with dead things, right, my mistake.”

They stare at one another. There is a tension there, the same kind from when they first met, from every time they speak – thick enough you could reach out and touch it. There Derek is, all bloody like a shell of himself, and they’re really going to stare at one another like this, in front of all these people? 

A throat clears from behind Derek. “I really should get all that glass out before it heals over and you’re stuck with glass in your face, Derek.” 

Stiles turns to look at the owner of the voice, the kid with the tweezers and the small metal dish where other shards of glass are sitting all bloody, but Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles for longer than a second or two. Finally, Derek turns and reaches for another folding chair, an empty one that’s left unattended near by. 

He thwaps it down right next to his own, pointing down at it. “Sit here,” he commands Stiles, who rolls his eyes and does as he’s told, plopping down into the chair with a frown on his face. 

Derek sits down next to him, gesturing for the glass removal to continue. The kid stares at Stiles for a second, as though he’s a hologram or a Halloween decoration come to life, and then clucks his tongue in disbelief before reaching over to tweeze some more glass from Derek’s skin. 

“Nobody has clawed my neck out yet,” Stiles comments after the silence persists for another minute. Derek makes a face at him, but the other wolf actually smiles. 

“I would say that has a lot to do with the fact that Derek likes you,” he says, and Stiles blinks, because, uh, Derek certainly does not like him. He darts his eyes to Derek, waiting for a rebuttal or a scoff or for him to say much of anything at all…but Derek just sits there complacent, face blank as more glass is picked out. “People generally live in fear of being killed by Derek for any number of transgressions. Messing with anyone he knows is a big no-no, so of course, you’re not likely to be clawed around his own domain.” 

“Then how come you’re always barking at me about not going here or going there or doing this, because someone is liable to kill me?” Stiles asks Derek, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm with a sarcastic grin on his face. 

“Because it’s true,” Derek winces as a big chunk comes out, but he still manages to look pretty serious as he speaks. “Lots of people here wouldn’t mind trying to fight me, so of course.”

“Of course?”

“Of course people would mess with you just to irritate me to get me to fight them.”

“But why would messing with me irritate you enough to –“

“Because he likes you,” another helpful addition from the peanut gallery.

“Scott,” Derek warns, voice low. Scott puts his hands in the air like he’s innocent, a slow smile spreading across his face as he does so. “Because you’re a fucking dumbass and you need someone to make sure you don’t die.”

“But who cares if I do die?” Stiles is having a little bit too much fun with this. 

“Obviously Derek,” Scott pipes up again, and that does it. Derek reaches out and punches Scott in the face, hard enough that Scott flips out of his own chair and lands on the ground. His little metal dish of bloody glass goes spilling out everywhere, his tweezers go flying, and Derek just sits there watching the entire thing with no expression on his face – Stiles is startled into a yelp, moving his chair a bit away from the scene with big eyes. 

“Obviously you’re nineteen and an idiot,” Derek corrects, reaching up to rub at his bloody cheek, as though to insure there are no more glass shards left. Scott mutters in annoyance as he picks himself up off the ground, massaging his jaw where he got punched and spitting out a wad of blood onto the concrete floor. 

Stiles has not spent any great time around werewolves as he’s said many times before. He’s not used to this much violence, and he’s especially not used to this much violence being so commonplace no one even stops to make sure Scott is okay. Of course he is, he’s a werewolf, so he takes hits like a seasoned professional, but Stiles is still startled by it. 

“Well, don’t worry,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I’ll ever come back to this fucking hell hole again, so you can rest easy.”

Derek looks at him some more. That same look he always gives Stiles, like he’s trying to read Stiles’ mind, or see straight through him. “You hated it so much?”

“Uh,” he scoffs, gesturing behind him at all the blood, like it’s all the explanation he needs to give. 

Derek glances at the blood, then at Stiles, then back to the blood again. “I didn’t take you for squeamish.” 

“I squeam,” he points to himself emphatically. “I definitely squeam. Dead bodies, evil demons, sacrifices, that stuff, I get. This?” He makes a circle with his index finger to encompass the entire room and all its contents. “Let’s see how hard we can hit each other until one of us goes catatonic, won’t that be swell? No thanks.” 

Without any warning whatsoever, Derek uses one hand to set his broken bone back into place with a sickening crack. It’s not poking out of his flesh anymore, but the sound and sight of it alone is enough to make Stiles wretch – he does, actually. He leans over his chair and makes a big show of it, sound effects and all, shuddering as he does so. 

Scott thinks it’s funny, so he laughs. Derek just shrugs and uses a damp towel from the floor to wipe the blood off his arm, like it’s all no big deal to him. Stiles has to wonder how many terrible wounds Derek gets a day, doing this particular line of work. How many times has he had to reset his own bones, or sit here in this chair getting glass picked out of his body, or wood, or metal, or any number of terrible things? 

Over Derek’s head, Stiles catches sight of a woman coming directly for them. She’s tall, with dark dark jet black hair exactly like Derek’s, except that it’s piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she looks…pissed. That’s definitely what she looks like. Like she is huge mad and is going to come over here and let all of them know about it. 

Stiles is about to say as much, but she’s fast. Before he can even open his mouth, she’s upon them, and she’s pointing a long finger right over Stiles’ head, turning to Derek with a severely irritated look on her face. “What the hell is this?” She demands. From this angle looking directly up at her, Stiles can tell she has the same bone structure as Derek, the same eyes, the same hair, and so he instantaneously pegs her as the only living relative that Derek has left.

Laura Hale. She has a lip piercing and a snake tattoo and green fingernails. She sort of looks like the most terrifying person on earth. 

Derek doesn’t say anything to her. He picks up a beer bottle from somewhere by his feet, takes a big glug, stays silent. Like she’s not even there. 

“It looks a lot to me like the necromancer,” she goes on, in spite of no one having said a word to her. Scott has become fascinated by his phone, brow furrowing like he’s seriously concentrating on a text when he’s likely just typing _la la la la la la_ again and again. “It looks a whole lot to me like that kid you told me you had nothing to do with.”

This is an interesting tid bit of information, so Stiles looks at Derek with his eyebrows raised in surprise. Why would Derek even bother lying to his sister about whether or not he knew Stiles? What is the big secret? 

“You see, I had heard the rumor that you were hanging around with the witch,” she is still hovering her finger over Stiles’ head, circling it around and around, “I just thought that was fucking nuts. What would you possibly want to do with him? We wolves burn witches alive for looking at us the wrong way, if you remember.”

“Whooaaa…” Stiles says, holding his hands up in surrender. He does not like the sound of that one fucking bit. 

“So I thought, no way. No way is my brother hanging out with the fucking Wicked Witch of the West.” 

Stiles is offended. He’s offended by the threat of burning him at the stake and he’s offended by the Wizard of Oz reference. 

“Now I come out here and find you socializing with him like he’s your new pet, or something!” 

“I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West,” Stiles pipes up, leaning his neck back to look up at her. She looks down at him, like he’s this little bug she’s going to squish if he dares to look at her again, so he quickly looks away, effectively silenced. 

Derek drinks his beer. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, he says, “he’s fucking nineteen years old, Laura.” 

This, for whatever reason, has Laura taking two huge steps back and away from him. Where before she had been standing there looking about two seconds away from trying to physically beat Stiles to a bloody pulp, she now looks like she does not want to touch him with a ten foot pole. She says, “what the fuck?”, all high and perplexed like she genuinely cannot believe it. She looks at him, critical, like she’s trying to read the Rosetta Stone, and maybe she realizes that, yup. The rumors aren’t all true. He is not some all powerful hell god. He is a kid. He’s very skinny. He’s got freckles, for Christ’s sake. “So it’s true, then. You really were – you are – did you try to – did you do witch craft with him?”

Witch craft is said like a dirty word, here, and Stiles does not miss that, not for one second. The longer he sits here being spoken about like he isn’t even here, the more he feels like some kind of a fucking freak, as though the world doesn’t already make him feel like that enough. 

Derek stands up from his chair and shrugs his shoulders. “Not really,” he says, which is almost true. They didn’t really actually do any witch craft together, because before Stiles got anywhere with it, Derek stopped him. It’s a half truth, and Laura seems to buy it. 

“Then why are you –“

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek says, and then doesn’t give Stiles time to respond or even stand up from his own chair by himself. He reaches his big paw out and grabs Stiles by his shirt, hefting him up like he weighs less than a head of lettuce, so Stiles stumbles up to his feet and is forced to tag along with Derek whether he wants to or not. 

“Uh, where the hell are you going with him?” Laura barks at their retreating backs.

“To get a drink,” Derek says back, not even turning around. 

When they get outside into the crisp night air, they go around the building to find Derek’s familiar blue shiny car parked up against the woods, a tree branch hanging over it. Stiles climbs in without having to be asked, and then he’s alone with Derek, in the tight space. 

Stiles says, “so your sister hates me.”

“She hates absolutely everyone, even more than I do,” Derek assures him, reversing out of his spot and then hitting the gas to go fifty in a twenty-five. “Don’t take it personally.”

Stiles plays with a loose thread on his jeans, biting his lip. “She said you guys burn witches.”

“Like you didn’t know that. Wolves have hunted witches for generations.”

“But like…not you guys.”

“What?”

“In your lifetime, you’ve never actually…”

Derek snorts, like it’s a ridiculous accusation. “No. I have never killed a witch. I’ve also never met one.” 

Stiles bites his lip some more. “But if you had, you…?”

“She was just being a fucking bitch,” he says with a wave of his hand. “She doesn’t like you. She thinks you’re Satanic. Even all that said, she would never light you up, okay? She was just talking. She talks a lot.” 

“Okay,” Stiles leans back in his seat, so the leather underneath his body creaks. “How come you don’t want her to know that you know me? Or, that we did the spell?”

Derek gives him a side-eye, as though the question is really dumb and Stiles is really really dumb for even asking it. “She would go apeshit if she knew I tried to bring our mother back.”

He takes a sharp right turn onto main, not stopping at the red light, gunning straight through it. 

“Because she doesn’t like witch craft?”

“Because it was a really idiotic thing to do,” he corrects, his voice tight and clipped, which suggests he’s had just about enough of Stiles’ prying questions into his personal life. 

Still, Stiles presses on. “So then how come –“

They come to a screeching stop right outside the bar. The sound of Derek shifting into park is loud, and it’s even louder when he aggressively rips his keys out of the ignition. “When you tried to bring your dad back,” he starts, and Stiles swallows, because he hates talking about that, “did you think very much about it, or did you just do it?”

Even as a kid, Stiles knew that doing resurrection spells…was bad. He knew, because his mother had told him, that only the darkest witches ever performed spells like that, and that’s not what Stiles was meant to be doing. Stiles wasn’t like that, and neither was his mother. They practiced white magic. They respected the laws of nature. They didn’t bastardize the natural order of things for their own gains, no matter how much they wanted to. 

He knew that it was a massive risk. He knew he’d carry the mark of the devil for all his days. And he barely even cared. He just knew that he had to try. He had to. Logic was not even remotely part of that plan, not even close. 

Stiles just…did it. It felt like his only option. Maybe Derek felt like that, too. 

Derek opens his door and climbs out without another word, slamming it behind him. Stiles follows suit, matching his stride easily with long legs. Inside, Derek beelines it for the same table that they sat at last time, sliding into the booth like he owns the place. Stiles wonders if this is Derek’s favorite table or the one they always leave open for him or something as he sits down on the opposite side. After all, Derek Hale is sort of a renowned drinker around these parts. 

“You want something to eat?” Derek asks, gesturing for the bartender’s attention. 

“They have food here?” Stiles is surprised. “What, like dead deer and the usual werewolf fare?” 

Derek gives him a look. “It’s bar food, Stiles.”

Stiles thinks his own joke is funny, so he laughs a bit and then shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not exactly dying to eat after all the blood and guts I just witnessed, thank you very much.”

“They have hot wings.”

That actually catches Stiles’ attention. “Buffalo?’

It has been a long, long, long time since Stiles has been afforded an opportunity to eat buffalo wings. He thinks the last time was when his dad was alive and they went to a fancy sports bar and they ordered endless wings and ate and ate and – well. It’s a good memory. Stiles doesn’t have a ton of those anymore. 

Derek orders Stiles the buffalo wings and the bartender lets him get a drink, again – instead of the nasty ass witch’s brew he settles for the same beer that Derek is getting. Then, they’re sitting alone with one another again, staring. Derek looks at Stiles’ collarbones, his eyes, his mouth, and Stiles just looks right back. “So, you didn’t like the fight,” Derek says.

“No, I should say not,” he sips his beer, and it’s really gross, but he keeps sipping it all the same. “Do you like them?”

“What do you mean?” He seems genuinely perplexed by the question.

“I mean, do you enjoy that? The…” the gestures with his hands vaguely, “the whole thing? You like fighting people?”

Derek takes a long sip of his beer and gives Stiles a critical stare. “Violence is just sort of what we do.” 

“We?”

“Werewolves.” Right. Laura had said _we_ too, when she didn’t mean specifically just herself and her brother, but was rather referring to the whole general lot of them. Stiles isn’t used to the idea of saying _we_ like that because there has never really been a _we_ like that, for him. There has only ever been him, just him, all alone, no other witches, no one like him. 

“But, do you like it?”

“I don’t really know how else to be. With what I’ve got,” meaning the whole not being able to be killed bit, “it seemed obvious.”

That is an answer, and it isn’t at the same time. Derek probably hates it, can’t stand it, dreads every single day he has to get up and go and do it all over again, but hey, what the hell else is he supposed to do? Stiles knows that feeling well. Very well, as a matter of fact. 

“Does your sister fight too?”

“No, not at all,” he shakes his head. “We don’t really get along.”

“I got that idea.”

“She thinks that fighting is beneath me,” he smiles, like that’s a joke, it’s so funny. “What the hell else am I good for?” 

It must be easy to draw that conclusion – that violence, killing, fighting would be all that Derek could possibly ever do. Not being able to be killed is huge, and it makes him a shoe-in, and it makes sense that he would think that this is his life path. Hurt, pain, these are things he knows, these are things he understands. 

“You like being a fortune teller?”

“Ah, yeah, actually. The trouble is no one wants me to read their fortunes,” he shrugs, holding onto his beer and staring down into it, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. “I’m good at it.”

Derek looks at him. That look. “Are you really.”

“Yes,” he sits up and smiles, nodding his head. “Oh, yeah. People think, oh, he’s so bad, he’s got the black mark, he’s evil incarnate. Meanwhile, I just wanna be, like, a fair attraction.” 

After a long sip of his beer, Derek raises his eyebrows and says, “read mine, then.”

“You’re joking.”

“You say you’re good, so prove it.”

“You don’t believe in all this stuff,” Stiles waves him off, rolling his eyes. “You just want to make fun of it.” 

“Try me.”

He’s serious. Well, he always is serious, that much has been made very clear, but he’s…really serious. About this. Stiles swallows and pushes his beer out of the way, gesturing at Derek with two fingers. “Give me your hand.” 

Derek hesitates for a second, and it almost seems like he might refuse. Then, slowly, he pulls his hand out of his lap and sets it down, palm up, on top of the table. Stiles takes it gingerly in his own hands, cradling it in one and using the other to start gently tracing along the lines and contours of Derek’s palm.

Derek just sits there, unmoving, watching Stiles poke around at his skin. Honestly, Derek’s hand is one of the more bizarre that Stiles has ever seen; he hasn’t gotten the chance to study a very broad number, of course, given the fact that he’s the devil’s advocate according to many, but…Derek’s is completely fucked. “Your life line is psychotic,” he says, leaning down over it to get a better look. “It makes sense, considering, but – I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” he takes his index finger and traces it, again and again, “it’s this, here. Normally it’d be, like, either long and deep to indicate a nice healthy life or any number of other variations meaning the opposite to any extent, but…” he stares some more, cocking his head to the side, “yours is fucked. It’s almost like you’ve got twenty different ones. Like, you were supposed to die a hundred times and then didn’t.”

“Which is exactly what happened,” Derek sips his beer and sounds bored. 

“And your love line is absolute shit.” 

“I thought this was about telling my fortune, not going on about things I already know,” he grouses, pulling his hand away with a narrowed set to his eyes. “Like, am I gonna marry rich.”

“You are already rich.”

“It’s an example.”

“Your hand is fucked up,” Stiles says emphatically, pointing to him with a smirk on his face. “I mean it. You are screwed up. And I thought mine was bad, dude.”

“Yours is bad?” This genuinely seems to surprise Derek; he sets his beer down and gives Stiles his undivided attention, like he wants to hear all about this.

But, Stiles doesn’t want to talk all about this. Of course his hand is completely screwed, his fate line a nightmare, his life line a big fat question mark, his love line abysmal. He looks away, at his beer again, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a fuck up,” is what he chooses to say, and Derek blinks at him. “I fucked up my entire life. My hand –“ he holds it up, so Derek can see all of his lines, short, choppy, screwed, abrupt, as if Derek could understand any of it anyway. “It tells me I’m going to hell.”

“Oh, me too, for sure,” Derek agrees, like it’s nothing to him. The idea of being tortured in an eternal hell dimension is just, like, whatever man, and Stiles gets that – it’s sort of whatever man to him at this point, too. After all, this existence on earth is sort of an eternal hell dimension, so he’s used to it. “I’m not so great, myself, you know.”

Yeah, Stiles thinks, staring down at his own palm. He knows that. 

The wings come, and Stiles sits up straight and rubs his hands together in excitement. Derek watches with a placid expression on his face as Stiles leans over them and breathes in the hot, spicy, sweet scent of them. “Oh, boy,” he says, picking one up between two fingers. “This is just what the doctor ordered.” 

“I think most doctors would tell you not to eat those.”

Stiles ignores that. He takes a big, huge, humongous bite off the bone and closes his eyes. Oh, that’s good. That’s the best thing he’s gotten to eat in months, years maybe even. Just hot, crispy, spicy flesh off the bone. Fuck. Yeah. After that first bite, Derek mostly fades away into the background – just a silhouette that sits there drinking and watching as Stiles inhales his food, bite by bite. He gets sauce everywhere, on his shirt, his jeans, the table, the napkins, on his beer glass, all over his face.

He licks it off of his fingers, one by one, and looks up halfway through this process to find Derek staring at him again. Stiles sticks his index finger into his mouth and sucks the buffalo sauce off, and Derek watches it, very intently. It’s the same way he stared at Stiles licking bacon grease off his fingers at the diner, the same way he looks at Stiles’ collar bones, the same way he’ll glare at Stiles’ mouth, sometimes. 

“That was good,” he says, once nothing is left but a pile of bones. 

“Looked good,” Derek agrees, tone unreadable. 

Stiles finishes his gross beer and waggles his fingers in Derek’s general direction. “I better go wash up,” he says, and Derek blinks at him almost like he’s surprised, as though personal hygiene is weird or something, but Stiles ignores that. He stands up and heads for the bathroom on the far end of the room.

A couple of wolves glare at him in disgust as he goes, but hey. He is here with Derek Hale after all, so what is there to be afraid of? They would sooner chew glass than try and do anything to Stiles with Derek sitting just ten feet away. It sort of feels nice, like Stiles has…a friend, for once in his life. Even though Derek is certainly no friend, not really, he’s just…well. Stiles still can’t answer that question. 

The bathroom is gross inside, just like the rest of the bar itself is. It’s not cleaned enough and there are wads of paper towels all over the floor because apparently wolves can’t aim for the trash can, but Stiles just bee lines it for the sinks and immediately soaps up and scrubs, getting all the buffalo sauce out from between his fingers and under his nails. 

He rinses, reaches for a paper towel, and then swipes at the few spots of sauce around his mouth. He’s meeting his own eyes in the mirror, when the door opens behind him with a squeak. Stiles looks to see that it’s Derek, but he thinks nothing of it. He probably just has to piss. 

Stiles throws his towel away in the trash, turns to leave, but then Derek is…there. Like, really there. Right _there_ there. 

He’s in Stiles’ personal space. It’s not the first time, no, but most times when Derek is this close it’s because he’s yelling at Stiles about, oh, someone is going to kill you, are you stupid, you fucking idiot, or something along those lines. But this time, Derek is just there. Looking at him. That look. The one that Stiles can’t quite put his finger on. His wounds have completely healed so the skin on his face is smooth and he’s got stubble, great stubble, at that. 

“Uh,” Stiles starts, clearing his throat.

Derek, un-be-fucking-lievably, says the following : “are we doing this, or what?”

“Doing this,” Stiles repeats, dumbfounded. Derek has got him crowded up against the counter, is moving closer still, so Stiles backs up against it and swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Derek’s voice is low, oh my god, holy shit, really low. He presses up against Stiles, like, seriously, right up against him. Stiles has never been – well he has been and several times at that – but never by someone like Derek fucking Hale. “I want to fuck you.”

“Uh!” Stiles is startled. The thing is, werewolves fuck like saying hello. They would have sex anywhere, with anyone, given the right time of the month and the right mood, it really doesn’t matter. Derek has likely fucked every living creature this side of the Pacific, and has enjoyed doing it, because he’s a complete animal, and that’s just what animals do. He’s no better than a rabbit – it’s not exactly that flattering that Derek wants to fuck him, because he’d fuck a god damn broomstick if it had a hole to do so. 

But it is rather shocking. “Uh, need I remind you,” Stiles starts, breath going quick, heartbeat picking up, Derek still directly in his personal space bubble and likely wondering why Stiles hasn’t just ripped his pants off already, “I am a witch and you are a werewolf, and we don’t generally get –“

“I don’t care about that, do you?” Derek is closer, even closer, so close that Stiles can feel him. All of him. You know. And he’s…hard. Which is baffling, mind boggling, because –

“We’re in a piss stained bathroom in the shittiest bar in town and I’m a witch and you’re a wolf and you want to…?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to?” Derek draws his eyebrows in together, because of course, this is alarming to him, that someone wouldn’t want to fuck him. He does look like a Greek god and he is strong and hot and all that, but…he’s… 

“Derek,” Stiles starts, voice high and tight. “Have you had too much to drink?”

“What?” Derek pulls his neck back, just a little, just enough that they can look each other in the eye without having to crane either of their necks at a weird angle. They’re about the same height, so they’re at eye level, staring at one another, but they’re still…close. Derek’s massive hard-on is still touching Stiles’ leg, which is definitely distracting. “You fucking sat out there touching my hand –“

“You asked me to?”

“..and then you were doing one of these,” he holds both of his hands up, fingers splayed out, and waggles them, licks one or two of them for good measure, so Stiles’ face goes hot with embarrassment, “and then you came in here in a clear invitation for me to follow, and now you’re acting like you’re so surprised?”

Stiles is still acting like he’s so surprised, because he is. All of that, all of the logic that Derek just used to explain why he’s here right now, is absolutely fucking nutso. Like something out of a porno, quite literally. “So, because I read your palm and ate buffalo wings and then came to wash my hands, you got the idea I wanted to screw around in the grossest bathroom known to man?”

“Whatever,” he barks, like it doesn’t matter how they came to be here in the first place. “Come on. I know you think I’m good looking, I can smell it all over you –“

“Oh, that’s humiliating…” Stiles mutters, hands going up to cover his face. 

“And you’re…this – the way –“ he seems to be having a hard time finding his words, which is not something that generally happens to Derek. “…you smell –“

“I _smell_?”

“No, not –“ he growls low, frustrated, the first time he’s ever heard Derek be a werewolf in that way before, and it sends a chill down Stiles’ spine. But he doesn’t hate it, which is perverse, and he can still feel Derek’s length against him, which is another thing entirely. “…the way that you smell. I wanna –“ he leans in, close, his tongue pressing against the top of his mouth, between his teeth, “taste it.”

Derek wants to taste him. Oh, God. “You’re drunk,” Stiles decides out loud, waving his hands in the air. 

“I’m not,” he counters quickly. Stiles goes to move, Derek boxes him in, both hands against the counter, so Stiles is stuck, trapped, the biggest dick ever known to man pressing against him some more. “Look, if you really don’t want to, fine, no hard feelings. The problem is, you know I can smell it all over you.”

“Smell what?” Stiles knows the answer, he really does, so he doesn’t know why he’s asking – he just wants to deny it, for some reason. Because Derek is a werewolf and Stiles is a witch and they can barely tolerate each other, to start with. 

“That you want it,” Derek says, and his voice is doing that super low thing again, almost a growl, almost like a real wolf, and it goes right down deep to Stiles’ center. That’s the issue. The problem itself is that Stiles does want it, even though they can’t seem to get through a conversation without being volatile with one another. Even though they barely know one another.

Even though…a million other things. That’s the fucking problem. 

“You smell like something I’ve never smelled before,” Derek says, and then he’s leaning in. All the way in. He presses his face into Stiles’ neck, so Stiles fumbles his fingers against the counter behind him in surprise, scrabbling for purchase, for something to grab onto. His nose is against Stiles’ Adam’s apple, and then his fucking tongue is, and he…licks. 

Not in a subtle way, either. Like, he _licks_. A big, heavy, hard, lick. From Stiles’ neck to his jaw to his mouth, and then their mouths are close, but they don’t necessarily kiss. Or they do, but the werewolf way. Which is for Derek to shove his tongue into Stiles’ mouth and dig around in there. Against his teeth, the roof of his mouth, his cheeks, finally coming around to Stiles’ own tongue. 

He takes Stiles by his face, one big hand gripping onto him so Stiles’ mouth opens all the way. Stiles grips the edge of the counter, and Derek flicks his tongue against Stiles’ once, twice, three times, before pulling away. He breathes, heavy, hot breaths into Stiles’ face.

“Oh, my god,” Stiles says, breathless, because, holy shit. Holy shit. 

He’s had sex before. Lots of it. Bunches. People don’t want to date him or really be around him, but he’s good for a fuck apparently, so he’s done his fair share. But never with a fucking werewolf. 

And okay, here’s another thing. Stiles has watched his _very_ fair share of werewolf porn, and you know what? No shame, because so has everyone else in the world. Even humans who claim to hate werewolves, despise the supernatural, want to see the entire supernatural half of this town burn to the ground, have watched werewolf porn in secret. Because it is hot fucking stuff, and everyone knows that. It’s just different than other porn, other sex, and very…specific. 

Stiles can’t get into it too much. Or, he can, because he knows a lot about it because he’s watched a lot, like _a lot_ a lot. Werewolves are the most sexual creatures that walk the earth, after all, and everyone knows that. They’re just primal on a level that’s beyond human understanding. 

One thing he’s absolutely sure of, is that Derek is going to hurt him. Not necessarily on purpose, or maybe on purpose, but not in, like, that way. Not in the way that humans hurt other humans during sex, not in a sadistic way, or any other way that one could understand. It’s just how they are. It scares him at the same time he gets a thrill, thinking about it, the bruises, the – the whole fucking thing. 

“Will you let me?” Derek asks him, like he even needs to ask. Derek just sucked the very last logical thought out of Stiles’ brain. He just licked it clean out of him. There’s no way Stiles could say no to him, even with all the reasons that he should. This is happening. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, whiny, and that is all the consent that Derek needs. 

He pushes in between Stiles’ legs, hefting Stiles up on top of the counter like it’s nothing to him. His hips press against Stiles’ thighs, hard, really hard, and there’s his hard-on again, touching Stiles’ between several layers of fabric. Derek kisses him, or not really kisses, but…does that thing again. With his tongue. It makes Stiles’ brain short circuit. No one has ever kissed him like this before. It’s like being devoured, or something, like Derek is trying to make their mouths melt into one another. 

Stiles reaches out to touch Derek’s chest and – that is a good chest. That is a very good chest. Rock hard like steel, like he isn’t human because he isn’t, firm, strong, smooth, hairy – 

Derek takes both of Stiles’ hands and pins them down on top of the counter, so he can’t move them. Stiles doesn’t know what to think about that, but it’s okay, he decides, because Derek keeps kissing him. They kiss, and kiss, and Stiles moans because it feels good, is dirty, is disgusting. Derek tastes nice. He tastes like werewolf. Bonfire, woods, smoke, heat. 

Stiles wonders what Derek tastes on Stiles’ tongue. What was the smell of him that made Derek want him to begin with? It couldn’t be the smell of magic, because magic repels wolves like kryptonite, but then what is it? Stiles would ask, but he’s a little busy being tongue fucked in his mouth currently, and he can’t even move his hands to push Derek off of him. Not that he would want to. Not at fucking all. 

The door opens, suddenly, creaking the same way it had when Derek had pushed his way in. Derek pulls off of Stiles and releases one of Stiles’ hands for the express purpose of reaching out to slam the door as hard as possible. It startles the wolf who had been trying to come in, who likely was also startled by the sight that greeted him inside, enough that he gets smacked in the head by the door as it slams on him.

On the other side, there’s a muffled cry of, “fucking seriously, Hale?”

Derek ignores him and goes right back to the kissing, pressing his body closer to Stiles’, reaching his hand down to touch Stiles’ erection through his jeans. Stiles jumps at the feeling of being touched like that, stutters out a moan.

With both hands, Derek pushes Stiles back against the mirror. Hard. Very hard. The mirror cracks, Stiles hears it, and it hurts, to be moved that harshly. Stiles grunts and winces, but then Derek touches him again and it feels good, so the grunt becomes an open mouth panting sort of a thing. 

“You like that?” Derek asks him, this edge of cockiness in his tone. He knows very good and well Stiles likes it. “I can hurt you worse than that.” 

Derek could break Stiles’ arm like breaking a twig. Derek could pick him up and throw him clean across the room. Derek could rip his fingers off, hold him down and bite him, could do absolutely anything to him, anything that he wanted – he is strong, big, fast, and a predator. He knows this. All of this is part of how he operates, is who he is. He couldn’t shut it off and be soft if he wanted to. Violence and hurt? It’s what he does. 

In testament to this, Derek takes Stiles by his shoulders and pushes him against the mirror again, before kissing him. It’s harder, this time, so the crack is bigger. Stiles likes it. It hurts, his back aches, his shoulder is going to bruise something terrible, but it…he can’t explain it. 

Derek opens Stiles’ pants quickly, pulling down his zipper and popping the button, and then he digs into Stiles’ boxers until his hand wraps around Stiles’ dick. He pulls it out into the open air but doesn’t bother much with pulling Stiles’ jeans down or anything; when Stiles reaches his hands out to touch Derek on the chest again, Derek takes both of Stiles’ wrists hostage in one hand. 

Stiles is not small. He’s skinny, yes, but he’s tall and lanky and broad around the shoulders, and he doesn’t have small hands or tiny wrists. The only reason that Derek can hold his wrists in one hand like that is because he’s a werewolf, and because he’s huge. No one else has ever been able to do that to Stiles, so he’s startled, at first, at being held down like that. 

Derek brings his free hand up to his mouth and licks it a few times, just to get his saliva on it – Stiles watches and his brain short circuits, because that’s hot. This entire thing is hot. It’s like he’s inside one of the werewolf porns he’s watched, for Christ’s sake. The hand comes down and takes Stiles’ dick, rubbing it up and down, too fast, so fast. Stiles wants to reach out and touch Derek, put his hand on his shoulder, or his neck, or on his face, or anywhere, really, but he can’t. He tries, actually, but he’s trapped. Derek is too strong.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, high pitched, whiny, like he’s going to come after only ten seconds of attention to his dick. He twists a bit, trying to break out of Derek’s grip on his wrists, but it’s no use, the pleasure too much, he can’t handle it. 

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, and he’s smiling. Not his sarcastic smile or his mean smile or any smile that Stiles is familiar with – this is a different smile. “You’re fine.”

He goes faster. Stiles bucks into his hand, smacks his head back against the broken mirror, and shudders. “I’m gonna come,” he says, and Derek makes a sound of agreement. 

“Looks like it,” he says, casual as all get out, as though he’s not absolutely tormenting Stiles right now, like this is just another day at the office – holding a witch down and jerking him off so hard it’s practically sadistic. 

It’s just a hand job. But then, this is a werewolf we’re talking about. 

Stiles comes with a keen, body tightening up and then releasing so fast it’s like fucking on a rollercoaster or something – the fluorescent light above their heads goes out with a crack and a pop, but both of them ignore it. He goes lax against the mirror, and Derek finally lets go of his wrists. His hands flop down into his lap and they feel all raw and a bit abused – they likely will be bruised up by tomorrow, purplish and yellowish. Derek hadn’t been gentle. He is not a gentle person, and he likely does not even know how to be. They are illuminated only by a light on the wall across the room, so they’re more shadows than anything else. 

Stiles has come on his jeans and a bit on his shirt, so the first thought that comes to him after coming down from the orgasm is that he will have to wipe it all up with a tissue or something before he can go out there. Everyone knows what just happened in here and likely heard it all anyway, because werewolves, but he doesn’t need to be walking around with fucking come all over him. That’s where he draws the line. 

He expects, though, that Derek will take his own dick out and flip Stiles over and want to fuck him, or at least have Stiles jerk him off right back – but Derek just steps away from him. He goes to the towel dispenser and gets one out, wets it in the sink, gently swipes up Stiles’ mess before tucking Stiles back into his boxers and then zipping him right up again. 

“Um,” Stiles starts, and his voice sounds weird in his own ears. He clears his throat, and starts again. “Don’t you want to…?”

Derek grins at him. All teeth. It’s the most wolfish smile that Stiles has ever seen on a human face before. “Oh, you’re not fucking ready for that,” he says, haughty. Then, he helps Stiles down off the counter and gestures for him to follow him out, in spite of still having a massive raging hard on in his pants, in spite of…everything. He’s just gonna walk out there all casual.

The mirror is completely fucked. Stiles is surprised the counter is still in tact, honestly. 

All the same, he doesn’t know what else to do. He runs his hands down the front of his shirt to smooth it out as if that’ll help absolutely anything, and follows Derek out into the bar. Everyone stares, but Derek ignores them, like they do not matter, not in the least bit. Stiles shrinks a bit into his hoody and then zips it up for good measure, burying his hands and hiding behind Derek like he’s a big wall to duck behind. 

Derek pays his tab and then says, “you want me to drive you home?”

Stiles laughs. “All three blocks?”

“Come on,” he gestures and leads Stiles out to his car, shining in the moonlight. 

They drive the three blocks. Mostly in silence. Stiles isn’t quite sure what to say and Derek is not a conversationalist, so it’s dead quiet, nothing but the sound of the engine to keep them company. When they’re parked outside Stiles’ place, Derek leans back in his seat and gives Stiles a bit of a look.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “I mean, yeah, but not like – not like, really.” 

Derek nods his head. He seems to be gauging Stiles’ reactions, keeping track of them, making sure he’s not silently freaking out in his head or something. 

Stiles fiddles with one of the holes in his jeans, poking and prodding at his bare skin underneath. “Can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

“And you have to be honest with me because I just let you do all those things to me in a shitty bathroom, so that means you can’t lie to me about anything anymore.”

Derek huffs a sigh through his nose. “All right.”

“What did you mean when you said – after the spell. When you said you didn’t know that I was like this. What did you mean? That I was like what?”

There’s a pause. Derek taps his fingers on his knee and stares at the side of Stile’ face, but he doesn’t say anything, not for what seems like a long time. Then, he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath, likely wishing he hadn’t sworn to tell Stiles the truth. 

“I thought you were as good as a demon,” he says, voice low, and that doesn’t offend Stiles because that’s sort of what everyone thinks of him anyway. “It turns out, you’re just…a human.”

“I’m not a human.” This is not the first time that Stiles has said this to Derek, but still, Derek shakes his head in disagreement. 

“Oh, yes. You are. Go home,” he gestures, so Stiles frowns and opens up his door, slamming it behind him. Derek stays outside with the engine idling until Stiles is upstairs in his apartment with the door locked.


	3. Fire is the Theme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t as far as I wanted to have gotten, because things are taking a lot longer than I thought they would. This is only half of what I wanted to have done in this chapter, but I realized today it’s 20,000 words. Which is perfectly long enough for a chapter. So I added another one lmfao

Stiles does not see Derek again for a week.

He goes to the diner, not to look for Derek, but just to eat or get a cup of coffee, and Derek is never there. Stiles eats alone, the waitress staring at him and likely also wondering where Derek is these days, and he won’t say that he wishes Derek were there, but. Maybe a little bit. 

He goes to the bar, pretends to be interested in drinking a beer, and Derek is never there. The werewolves leave him alone because word has spread that they as good as fucked in the bathroom here and that means that he and Derek are – well. Something. No one even gives him a dirty look. They’re probably too afraid to on account of what Derek might do to them if they did. 

It’s not that Stiles is abruptly in love with the guy or anything, because he’s a big giant disaster person and they barely have talked, only screwed around once. But it is that Derek is Stiles’ only friend, his only anything, and he was getting used to Derek being around, is all. Now, he’s vanished without a trace. Stiles supposes he could go down to the fight club, but then he doesn’t much fancy seeing Derek getting his brains punched out of his head again, and also, he gets the idea that he’s being avoided. 

Which sucks. Because Stiles hadn’t really done anything wrong to deserve being avoided. Or had he? Maybe the sex was bad. Stiles doesn’t want to think about that. For him, the sex was not bad, not at all. Sometimes when he’s sitting in the store while customers browse, he idly runs his fingers over the bruises on his wrists that Derek had left behind. 

It’s not like he’s in love with the guy. He had thought screwing around in the bathroom meant that they were not just two people who kept winding up thrust into one another’s trajectories. Maybe Derek thought it was just screwing around. He even considers doing a locating spell, but then he thinks that if Derek found out he was doing magic to track him down he maybe wouldn’t like that very much, so he thinks better of it. When he started giving a shit about what Derek does or doesn’t like, he doesn’t know, but apparently, he does. 

It’s mid October when Stiles sees Derek’s car parked in the middle of nowhere. Or, not nowhere, he is still very much in the midst of town – but nowhere, as in, a place Stiles would not normally expect to find Derek Hale’s car parked. There’s a grocery store with an empty parking lot, a Chinese food restaurant with all the lights off, and a hair salon that’s just as dead. It is one in the morning after all, and there’s no one around, not as far as the eye can see. Just Stiles walking alone and Derek Hale’s car parked, the glowing neon sign for Chinese food illuminating the windshield, making the blue seem even more blue. 

Stiles puts his hands in his pockets and thinks about maybe leaning up against it to wait for Derek to come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. That wouldn’t be too weird or anything, right? As far as weird things go, that’s bottom of the list, where Stiles is concerned. He considers it, and then he pinches his face together and makes the snap decision that to hell with Derek, anyway. He’s fucking stupid and screwing around with him in the bathroom was stupid and ever hanging out with him to begin with was stupid.

He’s a psychopathic werewolf who claws other people’s faces off for money. Who needs him?

That all goes to hell when Stiles meanders his way past the entrance to an alley and nearly has a heart attack, as a giant, big form of a man comes zipping out straight for him. He gets tackled, more or less, two big hands on him, grabbing him and stumbling into him.

Stiles is ready to light him on fire or zap him with lightning or any number of other defensive spells he knows off the top of his head – the energy crackles in his fingers to do exactly that, but it’s…Derek. It becomes clear that it’s Derek, because his touch is familiar and he herds Stiles over against the brick wall of the salon and leans them both against it. He’s panting, hard, and he says, “thank fuck,” like he’s never been happier to see anyone else on planet earth than he is to be seeing Stiles right now.

Stiles notices three things at once. The first, is that Derek does not look good. He’s pale, really pale, eyes bloodshot, hair mussed and grimy. The second, is that Derek is covered in blood, which is more or less the way he usually looks. But the third, is that the blood is not someone else’s, it is his. Stiles knows because there’s a great big gaping hole in his shirt where blood is pouring, pouring, his clothes soaked, his skin soaked, and he doubles over a bit, leaning over Stiles’ shoulder to breathe some more against Stiles’ neck.

“I need your help,” he growls this between grit teeth, like admitting it is shameful. 

“You don’t have to take that tone,” Stiles says back, and Derek rights himself. Stands up as straight as he possibly can with that huge hole in his chest, and glares.

“Considering the fact that I’ve spent a great deal of time helping you out of fucked up situations like this one, not to mention that I’m bleeding out right in front of you, maybe you could hold the god damn comedy routine for five seconds.”

Stiles puts his hands up in the air. “Okay, I –“

“For five fucking seconds.”

“ _Okay_ ,” he repeats, “it’s not like you can die anyway, so I don’t –“

Derek groans and smacks his head up against the wall, panting some more, shaking, his entire body almost convulsing through it. “But pain is still very real, and the worst part,” he hefts himself away from the wall, starts using Stiles as a bit of a crutch, ambling his way across the sidewalk toward the street, “is that death never comes, so the pain never stops.”

Stiles does his part, as they cross the street over to where Derek’s car is parked. He holds onto Derek to help him walk, but it’s a lot like trying to help a slab of cement walk for all that Derek is 1100 pounds of muscle and abs. They get to the shiny blue car and Derek leans his back against it, so he is completely illuminated by the street light instead of just being a shadowy figure for the first time since all this started. Stiles gets a really good look at the actual wound, through the hole in his shirt, and he immediately starts taking this more seriously than before. 

That is a bad, bad wound. It’s big and going yellow around the edges like there’s poison or some other terrible substance mixed in with all the blood, puss seeping out of it steadily. It’s horrible to look at, so Stiles quickly clears his throat and averts his eyes, up to Derek’s face. “Is this really bad?” 

“You need to drive me home,” is the response that Stiles gets. Derek pulls his keys out of his pocket and drops them on top of the hood of his car, his hand flopping down like he barely has control over his bodily functions. 

“Uh, what?”

“I can’t fucking drive like this, and I just –“ he winces, another wave of what must be very very horrible pain wracking his body for a moment, “…I just need to get home so I can lie in my fucking bed, all right?”

“Shouldn’t we –“

“Stiles,” he hisses between grit teeth. His eyes flash red, so Stiles will get the hint that Derek is dead fucking serious about this, that this is not a joke, that just because he can’t die from this that doesn’t mean it’s nothing. 

“I can’t drive,” he supplies, and Derek makes this incredulous face.

“You are nineteen years old and you never learned how to drive?”

“I turn into a bat at night and fly around looking for children to eat, remember? I don’t need to know how to drive!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek waves his hand and pops open the passenger side door. He flops inside like a dead fish, throwing his body into the seat and then just sitting there, waiting for Stiles to hurry up and get in. “It’s not rocket science.” 

Stiles hesitates. He takes the keys off the hood and holds them in his hand. Derek has got a couple of silver keys, the key to his car, and nothing else on his key ring, not that it matters. He purses his lips and hesitates some more, because honestly, he’s never even fucking been near a driver’s seat before. He barely knows what pedals are down there, but Derek is completely useless right now. In testament to this, he groans in pain and shakes some more, sweat beading on his forehead. 

He has definitely been poisoned with something. Stiles can’t just let him sit here suffering in the middle of the street, so he squares his shoulders and moves. He opens the door, gets in, and immediately puts on his seatbelt, because he has absolutely no doubt that he will crash this fucking car, but at least Derek is rich, so he can just get another one. 

“Um, okay.”

Derek is bleeding and heaving out these terrible, choppy breaths, his forehead pressed against the dashboard. Meanwhile, Stiles stares at all the buttons and pedals and the steering wheel in front of him like he’s gazing at Egyptian hieroglyphics. 

“Don’t tell me this is a fucking manual.”

“It’s a fucking manual,” Derek hisses. “It is not fucking rocket science.” But it is. If it were an automatic, Stiles thinks he could just sort of…go. Put the car in drive and let it wheel itself forward of its own accord. This is much, much worse. He has to actually drive, like _drive_ drive. 

“So you’ve said,” Stiles puts his hands on the wheel and it’s like holding a god damn alien space ship, for all its familiarity. “But it’s easy for you to say, considering you’ve likely been driving since –“

Derek is abruptly very, very angry. He puffs up a bit and goes ballistic, voice going up several registers, booming and loud in the tight confines on the car. “Nothing is fucking easy for me to say right now, every god damn breath is hell on earth, start the fucking car!” 

“Christ,” Stiles jabs the key into the ignition and he turns it, but nothing happens. “Uh –“

“Your foot needs to be on the clutch, holy shit,” Derek presses his hands to his face and shudders, likely feeling his insides burning and burning and burning, with whatever he’s been stabbed with eating away at his internal organs. “Just let me fucking die.” 

Stiles gets the car to start. Then he doesn’t know what to do, as it idles and revs under his touch. 

“First gear,” Derek helpfully supplies, but with a sourpuss voice. 

Stiles stares at the gears. Again, he sees hieroglyphics, but he figures it out. 

“Let it go –“

The car shuts down, out of nowhere, and Stiles is dumbfounded.

“I’m going to fucking raise your dad from the dead myself this time just to ask him what kind of father doesn’t teach his son how to god damn drive.”

“You know what?” Stiles pulls the keys out of the ignition and throws them into Derek’s lap. He sits up straight, narrows his eyes, and points a single index finger at the steering wheel. This is a spell he learned when he was a kid to get his bike to peddle on its own, so who knows how well it will transfer to this mound of steel and engineering, but it always worked on his bike, so fuck it. He’s about out of options. 

With a flick of his wrist, a blob of icy blue energy shoots into the dash, startling Derek into yelping and ducking away from it quickly as if he genuinely thought Stiles was trying to do bodily harm to him. The engine purrs to life immediately, the headlights coming on bright and illuminating the street in front of them, the buttons on the radio and air conditioning glowing neon blue in the darkness. 

“Nice,” Stiles grins – but his triumph is cut off. The car jerks forward, aggressive and fast. Stiles has his seatbelt on, so he goes flying up against it as the car slams to a stop at a four way intersection, but Derek does not. As a result, he smacks his head against the interior and groans, while Stiles instinctively grabs onto the center console just for something to hold onto. 

“You’re letting a demon drive my fucking car?” Derek growls this, getting flung against the window as the car, with a mind of its own, takes a sharp right turn at fifty miles an hour. 

“It’s not a demon, it’s my magic,” Stiles shouts, as the car pulls up to the main road and then sits there, idling, idling, nothing happening. It wants to know where it’s supposed to be going. “Oh, uh – Derek’s house?”

Derek snorts. “As if it’s going to just know where –“

Ah, but it does. It goes left, hard, the tires screeching and a plume of smoke from the burnout billowing behind them as they go. Derek is completely splayed out in his seat, limbs spread like an octopus, because he keeps getting flung from left to right, groaning and swearing and bleeding all over the seats. Stiles just holds on for dear life, thanking his lucky stars every time the car swerves a garbage can or a tree. 

Derek does not live far. They turn onto a short residential street only three minutes after taking off from downtown, the tires screeching and the engine roaring the entire time, before it slams to a stop in front of a single story house with a big maple tree in the yard. As soon as the car comes to a full stop, the engine cutting and the headlights going out, Derek is flinging open his door and shooting his body out of the vehicle with all his might, landing in a heap on the sidewalk and cursing some more. 

When Stiles gets out and comes around to meet him, Derek is yelling at him. “You are not allowed to drive ever again,” he manages to grit out, clutching his wound and wincing as he tries to get up on his feet. “You are fucking insane, you are out of your god damned mind!” 

“You told me to get you home, well,” he gestures behind them, at Derek’s house, his porch, the front window illuminated. “I did. Come on,” he reaches his arms out for Derek to take, which he does, using Stiles to pull himself up onto his feet. “Christ, Derek, you’re fucking sweating.”

“Just need to get inside,” he mutters, limping his way to the front door. It’s unlocked, so he just pushes it open and drags Stiles inside with him. He makes it five feet before he collapses onto the ground, coughing and spitting out a wad of something that isn’t blood but definitely is not just bile. It’s purple. Stiles is grossed out and puts his hand over his mouth, peering over Derek as he sweats and shakes. 

“You don’t look good,” Stiles comments nervously. 

“I will live,” he grunts. “I just gotta – get through it.” 

“Get through it,” Stiles repeats, blinking. 

“It will work its way out of me eventually, I just gotta –“ he coughs, again, more purple stuff gets spit onto his hardwood floors. “…get through it.” 

“What is it?” Stiles demands, kneeling down on the floor right next to him, mindful of where his purple piles of spit are. He hovers his hands over the wound and wonders if he should touch it, then thinks better of it, tucking them against his side and sighing through his nose. “Who did this?”

“Didn’t catch a face,” a bad wave of pain hits him and he reaches out, grabs Stiles by the hand, squeezes. Stiles is alarmed by the intimacy of the gesture, even if Derek is doing it mindlessly, just searching for something to grab onto to help ease his pain even by a small amount. He blinks at their hands laced together on Stiles’ thigh. “People love to do shit like this to me. To – hurt me this way.”

Stiles sets his jaw. “People like to torture you with poison because you won’t die, but you’ll fucking suffer?” 

“Everyone fucking hates me, if you didn’t catch that memo,” he grins, and it’s bizarre, this weird wolfy toothy grin, his teeth all purple. “This could go on for days.”

Days? _Days?_ “Days!?” 

“Just gotta get through it,” Derek murmurs again, closing his eyes and thumping his head against the floor. Stiles thinks about getting him a cold compress, or maybe cleaning up the wound as best as he can, or maybe digging around in Derek’s house looking for some kind of remedy for whatever is happening here, because he cannot let this happen. He cannot in good conscience just sit here for _days_ while Derek lies on this floor in abject torment. 

Although, there is something else he could do. 

He bites his lip, gnawing down on it nervously. “I know you don’t like magic,” he starts, and Derek snorts, like that is so beyond anything he could possibly care about right now, “but maybe if you – let me. If you let me, I can help.”

“Oh, what? Is there some wolfsbane removal spell you know?” He says it like it’s so ridiculous, stupid, out of the question, but Stiles blinks at him, dead serious. 

“I only saw my mother do things like this a handful of times,” he says, climbing on top of Derek’s legs to straddle him, to hover his palms right over where the poison went in. It’s horrible looking, purple and yellow and bloody, and the heat emanating off of it is very very strong. If Derek were human, he’d be in the grips of a terrible fever from this wound, but as it is, he’s a wolf, so he just suffers. “I don’t know if I’d be good at it.”

“You want to do experimental magic on me,” Derek closes his eyes again, frowning. “Oh, whatever. Just don’t turn me into a fucking toad.” 

“You already are a toad,” Stiles chides, pushing Derek’s shirt up towards his chin to get a better look at what he’s working with. It’s bad. It’s really bad. Stiles swallows and puts his palm not directly on the wound, but right beside it, working his jaw as he tries to remember what his mother did back when he saw her do this kind of magic. 

This was the kind of magic he was meant to do, after all. It’s what his family, the witch half of his family at least, has done for generations. It’s what his mother raised him to do. It should be in his blood, natural like riding a bike, but Stiles has to wonder whether or not he killed off the part of him that could do things like this when he let dark magic into his body. He isn’t sure if he has it in him, anymore. It’s a huge part of why he hasn’t gone to see his mother’s grave in years.

If she saw him now…what he’s turned into…

He has to try, so he grits his teeth and sighs through his nose. Come on, he thinks, hovering one hand over the wound and willing it to happen. Come on. It has to work, some part of him still has to have that magic, somewhere buried deep, maybe, but there all the same. He may not be even half the witch his mother was, but he’s got her blood in him, and that must count for something.

It does, after all. Stiles pulls and pulls, drawing his eyebrows in and putting all of his energy into pulling the pain out of Derek, whatever it is that’s hurting him like this. 

“I don’t think –“

“Shut up,” Stiles commands, and for once, Derek actually listens. He goes quiet and watches, sitting up on his elbows to stare with his eyes all big in his skull. Stiles honestly doesn’t know what he expects to happen, with all this pulling, all this magic coming out of him, or if he really expects much of anything to happen at all. 

Something starts coming out. Right underneath where Stiles hovers his hands, right where the wound is the worst, right where the hole is, something is coming up and out of Derek’s body. Derek seems spellbound, jaw hanging open, brow tight together, as part of a knife blade extricates itself from inside Derek’s flesh. It’s just a piece, like someone had come up and stabbed Derek so hard the knife broke apart, leaving the poison and the metal inside of Derek’s body in one fell swoop. 

But it’s out. Stiles pulls it up and then holds it in his palm, where it sits covered in blood and a purple slimy substance that must be the wolfsbane Derek had mentioned earlier. He stares at it. “I got it,” he says out loud. He sounds like he doesn’t believe it, because he doesn’t. He actually managed to get it out. “I did it.”

Derek swallows, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks a bit shocked. Stiles can’t really blame him – this night has probably been quite the whirlwind for him. Getting stabbed and poisoned, being driven home in an enchanted car, and then watching Stiles pull some mojo on him with his own two eyes. 

“Feel better?”

After a small pause, Derek stops staring at the place where the wound is just beginning to heal, and instead focuses on Stiles’ face. He says, “much.” 

“Good.” Stiles sits there on his knees, still straddling Derek, holding the knife shard in his palm. He isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do from here, so he clears his throat and gently reaches out to set the offending object down on the ground next to Derek’s arm so that Derek can do with it whatever he ultimately sees fit. “Uh – I’ll clean up your…the blood.” 

Without waiting for a response, Stiles hefts himself back up onto his feet and, for the first time, gets an actual look around himself. This is where Derek lives. All the times he ever pictured it, not that he spent tons of time really imagining it but some, he thought maybe a cave somewhere. Or, like, a hovel in the woods where he keeps his jerky and a pile of bloody clothes to choose from every day. A bottle of whisky and a pack of smokes on a coffee table and a sleeping bag. That sort of a thing. 

But, this is an actual house. It’s not much, just a living room bedroom combo, a bathroom off to the side with the light off, and a tiny kitchen through an arched doorway. He has shelves upon shelves, floor to ceiling, of books and DVD’s, so many it makes Stiles’ head spin to see them all lined up like that, possibly even organized alphabetically, at that. Who knew Derek would have any interest in things like reading or watching movies and television shows? 

Stiles goes to the kitchen. There’s a plate and a knife and fork in the sink, a coffee mug half full, and a roll of paper towels. Stiles grabs those and pulls off a few squares, running hot water over it and then wringing it out a bit. Behind him, he hears Derek shuffling a bit, maybe getting up and poking at the wound himself. 

When he comes back, Derek is sitting upright, but he still looks baffled. A little shell shocked. Stiles kneels down next to him and does his best to avoid eye contact, even when he can feel Derek’s eyes boring into the side of his face, as he frowns and swipes up some of the drying blood from the wound that continues to heal rapidly thanks to Derek’s particular disposition. 

“So,” Derek starts, voice very even. “You never said you could do things like that?”

Stiles feigns ignorance. “Like what?” 

“Like driving cars and sucking the poison out of people. You made it seem like the mumbo jumbo of old books and crystal balls is all you were good for.” 

He keeps his eyes on his task, as the wet towels sop up as much of the blood as they can. “I’m a witch. You thought raising the dead was as good as it got?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Derek says this evenly, like he’s catching onto the fact that Stiles isn’t comfortable with this particular topic. “All I’ve ever seen you do is weird satanism shit. Nothing like that.”

“Well,” Stiles has finished doing as much as he can, so he tosses the bloody wet paper towel wad onto the floor with a plop, “my mother was a different class of witch than that. She tried to raise me better than the mumbo jumbo of old books, as you put it. Look, I’d really rather not talk about it. I fixed you. That’s it.”

Derek gives him this firm look, all hard eyes and a set jaw, like he knows there’s a lot more to the story that Stiles is refusing to tell him. The honest truth is that there is not much more to the story than Derek could likely imagine. His mother practiced natural magic, magic to help other people, to be someone other people could rely on.

Stiles doesn’t know a lot about that. It’s not something he’s proud of, the way he flushed all of that down the toilet. 

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Stiles goes on, pulling Derek’s mangled and bloodied shirt down over his exposed chest, as if it isn’t a complete waste of time anyway. “Like how you’ve obviously been avoiding me for the past week even though we – you know.” 

Derek blinks at him. This is obviously not something he expected Stiles to say or how he thought this conversation was going to go. “All right.”

“So you admit it,” Stiles points an accusatory finger right in his face. “You admit you were avoiding me. After we kissed and after I let you do all that stuff to me in that fucking bathroom, you were avoiding me!” 

“Look,” he starts, shifting just slightly, so they’re facing each other, “you don’t want a guy like me around, Stiles.” 

Stiles knows it to be true. Derek, with his constant frown and his tattoos and what he has decided to do for a living, not to mention his very evident alcoholism and desire to smoke more than a pack of cigarettes a day, is nobody’s Barbie Dream Boyfriend. He imagines some alternate universe where they are two normal boys who met in college or working at the movie theater, where Derek maybe isn’t an unkillable werewolf who fights people to the death, but still has the rest of his bad boy attributes, and Stiles’ father is still alive. In that universe, Stiles’ father doesn’t die from a routine stop gone wrong. He dies from a heart attack caused by the sheer idea of his son being anywhere near someone like Derek Hale. 

But none of this really matters, because - 

“I could say the same back to you,” he sticks his chin in the air. “I am not good company to keep, either. What does it fucking matter?”

“It matters because you’re…you.”

“I’m me?” Stiles repeats this back to him, voice going up a register or two with annoyance. They’re close, inches away maybe, sitting on the floor together in Derek’s tiny house. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why don’t you just look me in the face and say you thought you’d try and see what it’s like having sex with a witch and you didn’t like it, and all that stuff about how I smell good and you want to taste me and this that and the other was just you talking to get into my pants. I’ve heard it all before. You probably hated the way I taste because I’m a witch and you can’t stand that about me –“

Abrupt, hard, and without any warning, Derek reaches out and grabs Stiles by his upper arms. The fingers dig into Stiles’ skin, and it effectively cuts Stiles off from his ranting and raving. Derek leans in close, so close, almost too close, and says, “no, see, that’s the fucking problem, that’s what you don’t get. I don’t hate the way you taste,” his eyes flick briefly to Stiles’ lips before going back up to his eyes, “I want to fucking have all of you, do you get that?”

“I –“

“Do you fucking get that? You don’t want that. You don’t want me around you, because all I will do is fucking ruin your life, you’ll see that.”

Stiles is surprised by this outburst, pretty much every last word of it. He is surprised by Derek’s admission that he wants Stiles in that way or in any way at all, and he’s surprised that Derek has such strong feelings about it, and most of all, he’s surprised that Derek has this idea of himself. That he’s some curse, or a burden, or anything of the sort.

“I am tainted beyond anything you could possibly imagine,” Stiles tells him, voice low, serious, and Derek grits his teeth like he doesn’t particularly like it when Stiles talks about himself this way. “There is nothing you could do to me that would make my life worse. I’m already going to hell, and so are you.”

“You are fucking crazy,” Derek says for only the ten thousandth time, and Stiles knows he means it. He really thinks Stiles is batshit, out of his mind, screwed up, and worst of all, Stiles knows that he likes that about him. “What happened tonight with all this,” he gestures around, to the room, the bloody knife piece still sitting next to them on the ground, “is just the tip of the iceberg. You want to hang around me with all this?”

“Yes,” he snaps, sitting up straighter. “You are the only friend I have. You’re the only person who –“ he looks away, briefly, because he’s ashamed to say this out loud. “…you are the only person that I’ve got, okay? I don’t care if you want to just hang out or just take me along to your shitty werewolf fights or if you want to fuck me, or what. Just…I _want_ to be around you, whether you think that’s a good idea or not!” 

Derek is still holding Stiles by his arms. The fingers are tight and tough, as they hold each other’s eye contact, as the silence in the room persists. Deafening, it is. You could hear the sound of a spider walking across the floorboards, in here. Derek looks at him hard, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He says, “I can’t be around you and not fuck you.”

Stiles doesn’t get that – not being able to stand someone’s company unless it involves fucking in some capacity. It must be a werewolf thing.

“Good, then do it.” 

“Stiles –“

“I want it.”

Derek is hesitating. Stiles can tell just from how rigid his body is and how stiff his posture is that he’s holding back from something, can tell that he wants to pin Stiles down on the ground, all of it. But he is hesitating. “I’ve never had sex with a human before,” he admits, and Stiles is surprised by that, genuinely, he is. He would’ve thought Derek has had sex with every possible living thing. “I could seriously hurt you.”

“I’m not a human.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You couldn’t hurt me, either way,” Stiles says this, sure of it. “You wouldn’t.”

“I hurt you last time.”

“Bruises,” Stiles shrugs, like it’s no big deal, because it isn’t a big deal. A bruise here, a bruise there – Stiles would expect nothing more and nothing less from screwing around with a werewolf, especially a werewolf as particularly violent as Derek Hale. He leans in closer, their lips almost touching, their noses brushing against each other, “and I liked it.”

That, for whatever reason, is what does it. Derek uses the hold he already had on Stiles to push them as close as they can physically get to one another, their mouths crashing together, the sound of their lips smacking the only sound in the room other than their clothes rustling. Derek pushes Stiles hard, so he goes flat against the floor on his back, and before he can do anything about it, Derek is on top of him. 

Pushing in between his legs, pressing their middles together, hooking Stiles’ legs up and behind him so he can dive in and they can keep kissing. Stiles doesn’t have time to catch his breath before they’re locked together again, Derek’s hands trailing all over his body, Stiles just trying to keep up. 

Derek uses only one hand to rip Stiles’ jeans off of his body. Like, rip them. As in, they were jeans before, but are now a heap of jean material on the ground – in the blink of an eye. Stiles barely feels it happening, it’s so fast. Then, he does the same thing to Stiles’ underwear, tossing the fabric away like he’s more annoyed by it than anything else, all of this happening without Derek taking his lips off of Stiles’ for even one second. 

When he finally does, he leans back, maybe just for the sole purpose of getting a good long look at Stiles’ entire bare bottom half for the first time. Last time, in the bathroom, Derek had just dug Stiles’ cock out and stripped it like his life depended on it. Now, he’s looking at the whole package, the legs, the skin, all of it. 

He notices the most interesting thing there instantly. “That is an insanely sexy place for a tattoo,” he says, and Stiles has been told that before, so he’s not surprised. 

It’s on his upper thigh, way upper thigh, some of the ink encroaching into the juncture between his leg and the rest of him. In spite of the fact that it’s written in Latin, a language Derek almost certainly does not understand in the least bit, Derek doesn’t ask him what it means or what it’s supposed to be, or really, anything about it. Likely, things like language and the meanings of words just aren’t as interesting to him as other things are, right about now. 

In testament to this, Derek leans down and licks it. The tattoo. One big, long stripe of his tongue on Stiles’ skin, every last inch of the ink. It’s hot _beyond_ , like beyond human understanding, and no one has ever done that to him before. He gasps in surprise, because it feels good and sort of tickles, especially in the places where his stubble rubs against his bare, sensitive skin. Derek licks it again, and again, so Stiles’ dick jerks and he shudders. 

This only brings Derek’s attention to Stiles’ cock, which is all red and hard, even though they’ve really only just barely gotten started playing around. Normally, it takes Stiles a little while longer to get rearing and revving to go to this extent, but then, this is Derek we’re talking about. Derek moves away from the tattoo, but he keeps the same energy from before – he licks Stiles, again. In a much more interesting place this time. 

Stiles can honestly say that all the times he’s ever had sex, all the times he’s ever gotten blowjobs before, he’s never been licked like this. Werewolves are deeply tactile people; where others might perform the act of sex with the sheer goal of making themselves come and their partners come, werewolves think about it differently. They need to touch, taste, smell, all of it, because all of that is part of the way they operate. Licking someone isn’t just some sexy thing they’ve seen in porn - it’s this primal, deep desire, to know what someone else’s skin is like. 

So when Derek swipes his tongue up Stiles’ shaft, the goal he has is not quite to get a reaction, but to see what it tastes like. At the tip, he flicks his tongue along the slit and gets some pre-come for his efforts, which he dutifully swallows over the sound of Stiles moaning and gripping onto Derek’s hair. 

“The way you taste,” Derek starts, and then doesn’t finish – he opts instead for running his tongue alongside Stiles’ bellybutton.

“Tell me what it tastes like,” Stiles pants, pushing himself up onto his palms, so he can look down at Derek fully, see his entire face. 

Derek looks up at him through his eyelashes, still pressing his tongue onto Stiles’ skin. “I couldn’t put it into words,” he says, and Stiles does not know what to make of that. In his head, he imagines he tastes and smells like magic, bag magic at that, and he cannot imagine how that could possibly be appealing to someone like Derek. Derek moves, reaching out to tug on Stiles’ shirt, his hoody, all the clothes he has left on. “Let’s get these off.”

“Don’t rip them,” Stiles commands, sitting up a bit to shrug himself out of his hoody, tossing it aside before he pulls his plain white shirt up and over his head. It’s got some of Derek’s blood on it, but that doesn’t matter now, as he’s totally and completely naked in front of Derek Hale. 

The black mark on his arm is out on full display, something that previous sexual partners of Stiles’ have curled their lips up at or frowned or just plain avoided altogether – but Derek looks at it, just for a second, before he leans forward and kisses Stiles on the mouth again. 

It’s not the same hungry, crazy, devouring kiss as usual. It’s actually soft, gentle, two words one could never think to ascribe to the particular person doing the particular kissing. It must take a lot of effort for Derek to be so gentle, so Stiles appreciates this gesture, like someone might appreciate a bouquet of flowers. It’s kind. Another word he never would’ve thought to use for Derek Hale. 

It’s over quick. Derek takes Stiles by his hips and picks him up. One fell swoop, like Stiles weighs nothing – one second they’re in a heap on the floor, gently kissing, and the next, Derek is picking Stiles up and carting him into the kitchen, dumping him unceremoniously on his ass onto the counter top between the sink and the fridge, shoving himself against Stiles’ naked body and kissing him again. 

The psycho kiss that Derek is so good at. All tongue, all teeth, all werewolf. Stiles puts his hands out and touches Derek through his bloody mangled t-shirt, and this time, Derek doesn’t take his wrists hostage or anything of the sort. Stiles pulls away from the kiss and makes a tugging gesture on the bottom of it, a silent plea for it to be removed, now, and Derek gives him a look. 

But he complies all the same. With one quick motion of his arm, he pulls the shirt off, tossing it aside somewhere that Stiles doesn’t catch, because he’s too busy looking. He has seen Derek without his shirt on before, at the stupid fight, but there wasn’t a lot of time to linger on how good it looked, because he was trying to kill someone else in the ring. 

Now, there’s time to appreciate it. Derek is fit. He is werewolf hot. He’s got the entire fucking package. Tan skin, hard as a rock, and tattoos. The tattoos are horrible, really truly bad, but it’s easy for Stiles to ignore that as soon as he reaches his hands out and touches the skin. Oh, that’s good. That is really really fucking good stuff. 

Derek doesn’t even stop him. He lets Stiles put his paws all over his bare chest, up and down, squeezing his upper arms where his muscles are biggest, his shoulders, his collarbones, all of it. He’s got this sort of sardonic smile on his face, like he knows that he’s good looking, knows that he looks distinctly like a GQ picture come to life, knows that Stiles likes it.

He reaches out and takes Stiles’ arm, the bad one, holding it out, looking at the black mark on full display. Stiles has this automatic, knee jerk desire to pull it away and hide it behind his back where Derek can’t see it, but for some reason, he stays put. He lets Derek look at it. His greatest shame. Not quite as bad as Derek’s tattoos, but still pretty up there. 

Looking at it is one thing. But he goes on to do the unthinkable. He lifts it up, close to his mouth, and licks it. This is a particular part of Stiles’ body he’s not even used to people looking at, let alone fucking touching or tasting, so the feeling is distinctly foreign, almost bad-wrong. 

He holds Stiles’ eye contact. He says, “tastes like death.” 

“Something you want so badly?” 

Derek grins. The wolf grin, predator grin, the one that makes Stiles want him so fucking bad. “Not as bad as I want to eat you.” 

With that, he pulls Stiles down off the counter, flipping him around, bending him over so Stiles’ chest is pressed against the cold tiles. Stiles squawks at the abrupt and rough handling, but really, he should get used to it if he’s going to be hanging around with this fucking guy.

Derek runs a hand down Stiles’ bare back, so Stiles shivers, then he moves down to Stiles’ ass. He grabs both cheeks in either hand, squeezing, as Stiles breathes out against the tiles and wants it. Like, really really badly. He wants Derek to hold him down and fuck him until he can’t remember his own name, seriously. 

“Do you want me to?” Derek seriously asks him this question.

“I thought we already had this conversation,” Stiles complains, turning to look over his shoulder at Derek. He looks so fucking serious, intense, brow furrowed, jawline tight. It’s funny to see him looking so serious, considering they’re about to fuck in his kitchen, which is a decidedly very silly place to have intercourse. It’s where the eggs are, for christ’s sake. 

“Just checking,” he says. Then, bizarrely, he reaches up on top of the fridge right next to them. Stiles half expects him to pull down one of the boxes of cereal he has up there to start snacking, because it wouldn’t be unheard of for a werewolf to suddenly need something to eat halfway through foreplay – but instead, he pulls down a bottle of lube he had stashed away behind a package of soft shell tortillas. 

Stiles blinks. “Why do you have that in your kitchen?”

“It’s good for household stuff, too,” Derek says, all casual, like that’s not the weirdest thing anyone has ever said. But leave it to super macho man Derek to know about how useful lubricant can be for things aside from fucking people – squeaky hinges, maybe. Derek squeezes some onto two of his fingers, reaching his free hand out to take Stiles by his neck.

He pushes on it, so Stiles has no choice but to press his cheek onto the counter right where Derek wants him to be, leaving Stiles staring out across his sink. It’s clean, nothing but his dishes from breakfast earlier today left sitting inside of it. A single finger pokes at his entrance, and Stiles is used to that feeling, so he relaxes and lets Derek press it all the way in. He moves it in and out a couple of times, tight and slow, until it starts to have a little bit of give to it. Then, he presses the second finger in, and starts stretching. 

He hooks his fingers, spreads them out, and spends entirely too long doing so. 

Stiles says, “I think that’s good,” but Derek shushes him immediately. 

“I’ll decide when it’s good,” he all but barks, and Stiles sighs and arches his back into Derek’s fingers, trying to entice him a bit into just hurrying up and sticking his dick inside. Derek ignores this, continuing on with the stretching and poking, minutes on end of it. No one has ever been this thorough with making sure Stiles was stretched, before. Stile guesses it’s nice and thoughtful of him in some weird way, but really, Stiles bets it’s that Derek thinks his cock is just sooo huge, there’s no way Stiles could possibly be able to take it without copious amounts of exercise, first. 

Finally, Derek pulls his fingers out and makes quick work of undoing his belt, which is a sound that drives Stiles insane, totally mad, as he bites his lip and spreads his legs a bit more. A slick sound, likely Derek glistening up his dick for entry, and then something big, hard, and hot is pressing into Stiles’ body. 

“Okay?” Derek asks him, and Stiles puffs out a heavy breath and nods his head. “Okay, it’s okay, just let me –“

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, even as he tightens up and gasps, Derek’s dick pushing in, and in, and in. “Oh, my god…”

“There we go,” Derek says once he’s bottomed out, once Stiles can feel his curly and coarse pubic hair against his bare skin, and then he strokes Stiles’ back a couple of times. “I’m going to fuck you so good you’re going to cry.”

Stiles huffs a laugh. “That’s what they all say.”

Derek takes Stiles by his hips, but he just stays still, for a moment, acclimating Stiles to the feel of his full hard length deep inside of him. It’s oddly controlled, for all that Stiles thought werewolves fucked completely unrestrained, animalistic, all that sort of stuff. He didn’t think Derek would be able to just stand there with his dick fully buried, holding out, not for this long. 

“You’re tight,” Derek tells him, and Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s not really used to having to make conversation with someone who’s inside of him. “How many other people have you slept with?”

“Uh, what?” Stiles rears his neck back, craning around to look Derek in his crazy fucking face. “That’s an insane question to ask me right now.”

“Just curious.”

Stiles doesn’t think that Derek really is just curious. Stiles thinks that Derek is a weird, psychotic territorial werewolf who wants to know how many people he’s going to have to hunt down and kill for having put their hands on his latest chew toy, no matter how long ago it may have been. 

“Christ. Uh, eight? Nine?”

“Oh,” true to form, Derek sounds annoyed by that information. 

“I’m good for a fuck, but not very much good for the sticking around part,” he shrugs, feeling nuts for having this conversation while Derek is in him, just standing there, holding Stiles’ hips, but he’s here having it all the fucking same. 

Derek apparently doesn’t have anything to say to that, because he says not a word. Instead, he grips onto Stiles’ hips harder, and fucks him. He pulls out, and then pushes back in. Hard. Incredibly hard. Stiles is taken completely aback by the severity of it, how his hips slam up against the counter, his body jerking with it, a hiccup escaping his throat before he can stop it. Inhumanly hard, that’s how hard Derek had done it. Which makes sense, but is hard to imagine and really conceptualize until it’s actually happening to you. 

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, keeping one hand splayed out on Stiles’ lower back. Then, he does it again, just as hard, and Stiles jerks the same way as before, another surprised inhalation of breath. Stiles can feel bruising already forming on his hips, on his insides, too, as Derek slams into him again. The slap his balls make as they are thrust against him is insane, like nothing he’s ever heard before. 

Then, he pauses. “You okay?”

“I’m –“ Stiles is scrabbling for purchase, fingers smacking against a ceramic vase that’s holding some wooden spoons and spatulas, dish soap. He knocks the soap over and it clatters into the sink, right on top of the plate and silverware, making a huge ruckus. “Yeah, I’m, I’m okay.”

Again, Stiles is slammed into the counter. It shakes. The glasses in the cupboards over his head rattle with the force of it, and Derek grunts. “You feel so good,” he breathes this out between his teeth, stroking Stiles’ skin all affectionate and gentle. “Can I go harder?”

“Harder?” Stiles looks over his shoulder, aghast. “Harder than _this_?”

Derek smiles, that same smile from before. Like he knows that Stiles had underestimated what this was going to be like, he knows that Stiles wasn’t prepared, he knows that Stiles is going to be a whining, slobbering mess hanging off of his dick by the time he’s done. 

Without a word, Derek picks Stiles up again. He hefts him against his body and then drops him, less than two feet away, on top of a small table in the corner of the room. It’s a better angle, and Stiles’ dick isn’t pressed against the dishwasher, and it’s at just the right height for Derek to fuck him at. 

Derek slides back inside of him and then the real fun starts. He fucks into Stiles so hard, the table goes sliding across the linoleum floor, slamming up against the wall. Stiles yelps, then moans, then curls his fingers against the wood, speechless, mouth hanging open. 

More fucking, the table banging against the wall, the legs lifting up and then dropping to the floor, all of it loud, loud, loud. Mingling with the sounds of Stiles getting fucked beyond stupid, his moaning and whining and desperate gasping, his fingers digging around looking for something to grab onto. Christ, the neighbors have to be hearing this – there is no way they’re not. Derek holds him by his hips again, gripping tight, so tight, it hurts, hurts really badly in a way that stings, but Stiles likes it. 

In this weird perverse way, the sound of the table rattling and shaking is almost as pleasurable as the actual fucking. Just knowing that Derek is really that strong, is even still holding back, does it for him. It’s sick, honestly it is, but Stiles keens and arches his back into it. 

Derek might lose control for a fraction of a second, because he growls and pounds into Stiles so hard the table breaks. One second it’s holding up, barely yes, but standing upright against the barrage, and the next, it’s falling apart right underneath Stiles’ body. 

The legs buckle and then snap and it goes down in a pile – Stiles almost goes down with it, but Derek picks him up and holds him against his body, both arms wrapped around Stiles’ middle. The table lands, the sound of it shattering loud in the quiet house, and Derek asks, “are you all right?”

Stiles isn’t sure how to answer that question. He’s dangling in the air, looking down at a completely dismantled table that fell apart because Derek fucked him so hard. Honestly, he has no idea if he’s okay, but he’s not injured, so he says, “yes.”

“You want to stop?” Derek is again oddly calm, controlled, direct. Not a crazy insane animal or anything of the sort – he has this intensity about him, this severity, like he’s disciplined himself to not hurt other people unless he wants to. 

“No, don’t stop,” he practically begs, writhing around in Derek’s arms. “I want to –“

Come, is what he was going to say, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Derek carries him back into the main room, beelining it for the mattress on the floor in the corner next to a small bedside table with a lamp and a glass of water. 

Derek throws him onto the bed, all long limbs and awkward flailing. Stiles goes to move, to right himself and maybe get onto his back to see what Derek is going to do next, but Derek stops him. “You stay right there,” he commands, so Stiles freezes immediately. “On your hands and knees is fine. You’re just fine like that.” 

“Okay,” Stiles croaks, curling his fingers into Derek’s sheets. They’re green. Somehow it’s not surprising that they’re green. Green seems like a very Derek color. He looks over his shoulder and sees Derek pulling his jeans all the way off, and this is the first look Stiles gets at Derek’s entire naked body. 

His dick isn’t freakishly big, but it is big, which isn’t a surprise. His thighs are strong and muscled, covered in even more of those just awful fucking tattoos, his calves huge, huge, and Stiles bites his lip so hard he almost draws blood. 

Derek climbs onto the bed behind him, on his knees. Stiles watches, and Derek meets his eyes. They look at one another, as Derek lines himself up with Stiles again, pushes in again, and starts the entire process over again. This time when Derek fucks him, there’s nothing to get pushed into or ground down onto except for the soft pillows and the mattress, so it’s infinitely more comfortable, not that it really matters. 

Stiles’ entire body shakes with the fucking, his cries coming out all jittery from the force of it, until Derek takes him by his neck and pushes him face down into the bed, so he can barely move at all. Then, just like in the bathroom, he collects Stiles’ arms, holding them behind his back by his wrists, with just one hand. Stiles is completely stuck, his body right where Derek wants it to be, every inch of him held down, as Derek fucks him, and fucks him, and fucks him. 

When Stiles finally comes, it’s like a religious experience. It builds like heat in his stomach and spills out of him all whiny and desperate, going everywhere in the sheets, on his own skin, Stiles nearly fucking blacks out from the force of it. “That’s right,” Derek is saying, somewhat distantly as Stiles pants and screws his eyes shut, drool pooling beside his mouth on the mattress cover. “Come on my cock.”

“I did, asshole,” Stiles says through grit teeth, his words choppy, because Derek is not done. Still, he’s going, like the energizer bunny, mostly just using Stiles’ spent body to chase after his own pleasure. 

He lets go of Stiles’ wrists, his neck, pressing his hands down beside Stiles’ head, digging deep into the mattress. Stiles can tell he’s close, just from the erratic nature of his thrusts, how he’s breathing, and then he’s done. He comes on a growl, tight from the back of his throat, but he stays buried deep inside of Stiles’ body.

Stiles can almost feel the come inside of him. 

Derek does not pull out. He tugs Stiles flush against his body, and then lays them both down, side to side, on the bed. He keeps his dick inside, moving it around just a little, so Stiles whines and tries to pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek apologizes, going still, but holds Stiles down from going anywhere. “I’m sorry, that must hurt.”

“It’s tender,” Stiles breathes, then he says, “Jesus fucking Christ, Derek.”

Derek mouths at Stiles’ neck, sucks at it, bites it, moving down along Stiles’ shoulder – like he’s honestly still turned on and could go again. “Did I hurt you?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m going to be feeling this for weeks.”

Derek licks his neck, the sweet spot that makes Stiles laugh because it tickles. “I told you so.”

Derek certainly did, at that. He warned Stiles more than once that he wasn’t ready for it, that he could hurt Stiles and would, that it was going to be rough. What can Stiles really say about it? After all, it’s not like he hated it. 

It’s not like he hated it very much, at all. 

“Are you hungry?” Derek asks him, reaching his hand down to press against Stiles’ stomach as if making the point that Stiles should probably eat. “I could eat a fucking horse.”

“I’m exhausted,” is what Stiles says, burrowing against one of Derek’s pillows that smells comforting, like him, like his neat little house, like his car. “Can I sleep here?”

Derek sounds surprised when he says, “sure,” like he half expected Stiles to collect his heap of jeans off the floor, quickly sew them back together, and then make a hasty retreat out the back door as soon as Derek’s back was turned. It must be what he’s used to, and Stiles knows how that feels. People don’t generally stick around to cuddle after fucking him, either. 

All the same, Stiles lets Derek pull out, finally, and lets him pull a big green blanket over his naked body. He gets up, turns off the living room light, and then vanishes into the kitchen. As Stiles closes his eyes and starts drifting off to sleep, he listens to the sound of Derek puttering around in his fridge and cabinets, filling a pot with water, cooking a quick midnight snack for himself.

**

Stiles wakes up in increments.

The first thing he takes note of is that his ass hurts. And not in the regular way it can sometimes ache or feel tender after fucking – it _hurts_ hurts. Like there are bruises inside of him, deep inside, like he’s got a tear or something. He opens his eyes and groans, stretching out, and then that hurts too. His hips hurt probably the most, achy and sore, and then his legs are in no better shape. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and he remembers he’s not in his shitty little apartment downtown, as he looks around himself at the dark room. 

This is Derek’s house, he remembers. This is Derek’s living room, with the big television and comfortable looking couch, and his hundreds and hundreds of books and dvd’s. Derek’s kitchen is behind him, Derek’s bathroom across the way, and most importantly, Derek’s bed right underneath him. 

Then, there’s Derek. He’s asleep on the other side of his mattress, buried underneath the same blanket as Stiles, sleeping soundly with his back turned. There’s his snake tattoo, and a huge one of a collection of trees around his shoulder blades, and he’s snoring. Loudly, too. Stiles blinks a few times, as he runs his hand through his hair and feels…fucking weird. He feels like he shouldn’t be here or something, or like this is Derek’s den or at least his sacred space, and the absolute last thing that he should want in his house, let alone his bed, is a witch. A necromancer, at that. Wolves hate people like him. Stiles should know better.

But Derek had invited him here. Derek had been relieved to find him last night, as he was bleeding in the street, had been drawn to him for help, asked for it. He brought Stiles inside and touched him, big time, and when Stiles asked if he could sleep here, Derek said yes. 

There is a lot to unpack. Last night, he hadn’t done very much critical thinking, what with all the werewolf dickery occurring, but now, he’s thinking. Critically. Very critically. He bites his lip and is frozen still for a moment, figuring that if he moves or rustles too much, Derek will be immediately awake and alert, on account of those fancy werewolf senses of his. 

He has to get out of this bed. It smells like werewolf and safety and Derek, and he’s got to go. Otherwise, he’ll never be able to wrap his head around all of this. 

Slowly, he pulls the blanket off his body. He drapes it gently to the middle, very careful not to expose any of Derek’s skin to the cold air outside of the bed. Then, he moves his body like an old man, and it’s not just because he’s trying to be quiet – it also has a lot to do with the fact that he’s covered in bruises and feels like he went through a spaghetti noodle maker last night. 

He gets his feet on the ground, still in their socks, and then gently hefts himself up onto his legs, to a standing position. He freezes when the floorboards under his feet creek, expecting Derek to be up and red eyed in the millisecond after it happens…but it’s silent. Derek keeps snoring, snoring, snoring, so Stiles tip toes across the room to the bathroom, wincing with every single step he takes. 

As soon as he’s got his feet on the cold tiles, he closes the door gently behind him and then presses himself up against it. He puts his hands over his face and breathes out between his fingers, shaking his head slowly back and forth, back and forth, in disbelief. He had sex with Derek last night. 

It was one thing to let Derek jerk him off in a bar bathroom. That could be written off as tomfoolery, just guys being dudes, what’s one guy jerking another guy off in a disgusting bar bathroom anyway? No big deal. It was casual, if intense, and it was something both of them could have ultimately walked away from. Matter of fact, Derek had attempted to do just that, but they wound up in each other’s orbit again, anyway. 

Stiles gets a creeping chill up his spine, that de ja vu sinking into his gut just like it always does. A memory that doesn’t exist, an event that never happened, but all the same, Stiles is sure that where he is, is…fine. Just fine. He can’t explain that, yet. It’s like when he went to the werewolf fight and he knew he shouldn’t be there, knew it was wrong, knew it went against everything he had taught himself over the years of being on his own. But his body told him it was right, all the same. 

He pulls his hands off of his face, and looks around. Derek has a nice bathroom. It’s got black and white tiles, a sink with a big mirror, and a shower with a green curtain. Green, again. Derek’s favorite color, maybe, and the color that Stiles would assume emanates from his aura like moss on a tree. Shakily, he turns on the light and squints against its brightness, approaching the big mirror on hesitant feet. 

What he sees is both shocking, terrifying, and also, strangely thrilling, at the same time. 

He’s got hickeys. He can’t remember the last time he got a hickey. High school? And that was just one hickey, maybe two on a good day – this is a dozen, at least. Some of them are just bruises, small little love bites, but some of them have teeth to them, like he was bitten, and he’s trying to remember if he had let Derek use his teeth last night. 

Not his real teeth. Just his human teeth. Still, it smarts, when he reaches out to poke at the marks, so he winces and draws his hand away. 

Next, his eyes find his hips. That’s the worst of it, by far. The bruising is pronounced, purple and blue and even ghastly yellow in some places. It’s not surprising. Stiles was ground into a counter, plowed against a table, and held down all the while with Derek’s big meaty werewolf hands. It had hurt, at the time, but this is surprising, still, to see the extent of the damage. His hair is a complete disaster, sticking up in about sixteen thousand different directions. Fruitlessly, he tries to pull and tug it back down to the way he likes it, glaring at himself in the mirror. 

“Well, you did it,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. “You went and fucked a werewolf. If your mother wasn’t turning around in her grave from all the shit you’ve already pulled, she certainly is now. Happy?”

Stiles meets his eyes in the mirror. They’re a bit bloodshot from exhaustion, bags under his eyes, his lips bitten red and chapped to hell. He looks like he fucked a werewolf, can feel it all over him, under his skin, and he knows he should hate it. 

There is no warning when Derek comes bursting into the bathroom, illuminating himself in the yellow glow of the light over their heads – Stiles yelps and nearly trips, catches himself on the shower curtain, righting his feet and letting out a shaky breath. “You just scared the hell out of me,” he snaps, closing his eyes as he starts to feel his heart going back to normal. 

“What are you doing in here?” He demands, looking Stiles up and down. They are both still completely and totally naked, and this does not seem to bother Derek in the least bit. He’s a werewolf, so of course it doesn’t, but Stiles feels self-conscious, hiding himself halfway behind the shower curtain to escape Derek’s prying gaze. “Who are you talking to?”

“Myself,” he says, trying not to feel silly about it. Derek makes a face at him that makes Stiles feel silly anyway. 

“You’re talking to yourself in the bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“You want to talk about it?” Derek asks him, leaning back against the doorframe all casual, crossing his arms over his chest. He is completely fucking bare assed naked, and he has the nerve to look casual about it, like this is not humiliating in the least bit. “Last night?”

“Last night,” Stiles repeats, then he doesn’t know where to go from there. Last night was a fever dream, or a mistake, or a nightmare, or something he did without thinking and now regrets, or…?

Derek levels him with a steady gaze. He is so, so serious, his face all steel. “I hurt you.”

“This again,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his eyes with his hands so aggressively it’s a wonder he doesn’t rub them rub out of his head. When he stops, he looks Derek in the face, and gestures a bit wildly with both of his arms. “We’ve been over this. I like it when you do shit like that, okay? It’s embarrassing you keep making me say it out loud!” 

With a furrowed brow and a confused frown, Derek asks, “what’s so embarrassing about that? You like being roughed up a bit, so what?”

Ah, yes, so what. That’s exactly the attitude Stiles should’ve expected. There’s not a ton of room in here to do so, but all the same, Stiles starts pacing. It’s only a few steps until he has to turn around and go the other way, over and over, turning on his heel again and again and fidgeting his fingers and then biting his lip, anxiety pooling up in his gut.

Derek watches him like Wimbledon, eyes tracking his movement. “Are you freaking out?”

“No,” he laughs, like it’s funny, and then he sobers up and chews on his index finger. “Completely. Totally fucking flipping. I’m not supposed to do things like this. I’m not supposed to have sex with werewolves and do black magic and run around to the – to the fucking werewolf fight club,” he stops, gesturing out the small, frosted window over the shower, as though the club itself were right outside, in the front yard. “You know, growing up, they used to say, I had, like, a natural gift for magic. I was going to be a big deal, I was going to do well for myself, and then I just fucked all that right off.”

Derek seems content to just stay there, still as a statue, leaning against his wall, arms crossed, expression serious, as he listens. No commentary whatsoever. 

“Now I go to the werewolf bar and get threatened, and I piss all over my mother’s grave, and I raise people from the dead, for money. For money, Derek. _Money_.”

The severity of this statement seems lost on Derek, who just nods his head, like yup, all that certainly happened. 

“Then, the cherry on top, you and me,” he gestures between them with his index finger, frantic, shaking his head. “Dumb, stupid.”

“Dumb?”

“It is, it’s dumb, because you’re – you’re – like – three hundred pounds of werewolf and tattoos and you kill people and you have all this money but you don’t spend it because you don’t care about it, and you’re never going to die. And I should not want to be around you, not for one single second! And you know something else? You should not want to be around me,” he points both thumbs at his chest, frowning. “I’m fucking trouble, man, big time. You think a little wolfsbane stabbing is bad, well buckle up, because you haven’t seen anything yet! You ever had anyone try to burn you alive?”

“Yes, actually,” Derek says, voice blank. “Didn’t care for it.” 

Oh, right, Stiles smacks his forehead and feels bad that he said that, feels bad that he was so thoughtless, to say something like that, to Derek of all people. “Death follows me around like my fucking shadow,” he says, his voice cracking just a bit at the end. “And I know to you that sounds so romantic, because you’re all immune, but there are things this curse can do to you that are worse than death, I would know.” 

“I thought we already went over all of this last night,” Derek waves his hand dismissively, as though this conversation is already beginning to bore him. “You suck, I suck, we’re on the highway to hell, and that sucks. I thought we came to a mutual understanding.”

“A mutual understanding?” Stiles repeats, dumbfounded. When the hell did that happen? All Stiles can remember from last night was the fucking episode of Porn Stars they filmed. 

“You want me, I want you,” he reminds Stiles, lifting a single eyebrow. “The rest is just noise.”

Noise. _Noise_. White noise, a television on in the background all fuzzy and glowing lights across their faces, but easy enough to ignore. 

“Your curse is death and mine is the opposite,” he shrugs his shoulders, slow and deliberate, while Stiles finally stands still and palms his forehead, feeling shaky and unsure. “Seems fitting.” 

Is it? Do they fit? In some sick, twisted, cosmic way, do they fit? Is that what the de ja vu has been trying to tell him? Has he been here before? Does he know Derek, in a way that he can’t understand? 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks him, for what seems like only the thousandth time since last night started. “You seem a little...” Freaked, might be the word that Derek is searching for, because Stiles certainly is. There is a lot to think about, a lot to take in, a lot to analyze, a lot to try and understand, about what’s going on here between the two of them. Derek is ready to just throw caution to the wind and go right on ahead and do it, and sometimes, Stiles feels that way, too – like last night, letting Derek do all those things to him was easy, because he wanted it. 

In the harsh light of the morning, however, when he can see his bruises, he wonders if maybe he’s being irrational. Latching onto the first person who has paid him the least bit of attention in a long time, perhaps. Stiles rubs at his face and sighs through his nose, because he doesn’t have time for this mental breakdown right now, especially not naked in front of Derek Hale. 

“Do you mind if I clean up here? I’ve gotta go open up the shop.” 

Derek shrugs, again, like all of this is just another day for him. “Go for it.”

“Maybe you could put on some god damn pants,” Stiles suggests, and Derek raises his eyebrows like he thinks that’s funny, or something. 

“I’d recommend you do the same, but…”

Right. Stiles’ pants, or what he formerly knew as his pants, are in a heap of nothing on the floor in Derek’s living room. All the same, Stiles reaches behind his head, paws around the back of his neck for a moment, and then pulls an old pair of jeans out. Derek stares, watching as Stiles goes in again and comes up with underwear, and then a toothbrush. 

“What the hell is that?” Derek demands, standing up straighter and cocking his head to the side, glaring critically at Stiles’ entire body like he’s trying to figure out where Stiles had been keeping all of that shit. 

“It’s like an emergency kit I keep,” he shrugs his shoulders, sliding his boxers up his legs, then going in for the jeans. It’s an old pair he’s had since he was in high school, but they still fit perfectly around his hips, because it’s not really like he’s been gaining weight since then. “I store all kinds of things in there. Clothes, shoes, books, candles, first aid stuff.” 

“What is it?” 

Stiles shrugs again, because he isn’t really sure how to explain it. “It’s a room in my head. Watch this,” he grabs the first thing he finds on Derek’s sink counter, which happens to be a razor. He waves it around in front of Derek’s face like he’s performing a magic trick for a crowd, and then he reaches behind his head, and pushes it into his neck. 

For dramatic effect, he shows Derek both of his hands, now empty. Derek watches his every movement, frowning and intense, like he always is. “Abracadabra,” Stiles says as he reaches back again, and pulls the razor right back out, holding it for Derek to see it in all its glory. “Ta-da.” 

“Is there a size limit?”

“Well, things I can’t physically lift to put back there, obviously.” 

“But if I could pick up my car and somehow push it into your skin…?”

“Maybe,” he smiles, running his toothbrush under the cold water and borrowing some of Derek’s toothpaste from his medicine cabinet. “But that would be a lot of work. I have a skateboard in there, somewhere, but I’m not very good at riding it, so it collects dust.” 

By all rights, this should be another one of those magical things that gives Derek the creeps, or at least irritates the living daylights out of him, but Derek actually seems like he thinks it’s interesting, if maybe even…cool. It has been a long time since anyone thought the things that Stiles does are cool, a long time indeed, so Stiles smiles around his toothbrush as he brushes, feeling Derek’s eyes staring at the back of his neck like he’s trying to see any more of Stiles’ hidden possessions, there. 

Out in the living room, Stiles picks up his bloody white t-shirt from the night before and slides it on, then his hoody. He approaches his heap of jeans and finds his wallet and phone, tucking them safely away into his pockets, while Derek dresses silently behind him. It’s time for Stiles to go, because he’s supposed to have been open an entire hour ago, but he hesitates.

What’s he supposed to say, now? What’s he supposed to do, now? Are they going to kiss? Is Derek going to come with him? He isn’t sure what the protocol is, when someone actually sticks around after fucking him, so he twiddles his fingers and watches Derek button up his jeans. 

“Um,” he begins, eloquent as ever, and then clears his throat and starts over. “Well, I better get going.” 

Derek still has no shirt on, as he looks Stiles right in his face. “Maybe I’ll take you for a drink later,” he offers, and Stiles knows Derek well enough to learn how to read between the lines. That means, Derek will be at the bar whether Stiles shows up or not, so maybe Stiles should show up, because if he does, Derek will buy him a drink, and maybe something to eat, and maybe they can have sex again. 

Stiles flushes hot pink across his cheeks and nods, awkward, averting his gaze down to the ground. “Ah, okay. Well, here I go.” 

They do not kiss. They don’t even hug, like couples do on television. Stiles turns on his heel and goes out the front door, and Derek says not a word to him as he goes.

**

When Stiles walks into the werewolf bar later that night, everyone turns to look at him. It’s not the same as the first time he had come here, when they all looked at him because he was a witch and they hated him on principle alone or for what they had heard about him. Not the same, at all.

Now, they all turn to look at him and _really_ stare, glare, as though they are trying to figure out what it is about him that has got Derek Hale out here threatening to fucking kill people for looking at him the wrong way. The bartender spots him coming and makes this exaggerated sighing gesture, entire body going along with it as she puckers her face up and rolls her eyes, this sort of _here we go again_ air to her. 

No one goes near him. Matter of fact, people actively move to get out of his way as he walks, as though he’s on fire. 

Derek is in his usual booth, smoking, drinking a beer, and his clothes are bloody. He’s got on his leather jacket full of holes and faded patches, a green v-neck with a hole right near his right nipple, and he’s glowering. When he sees Stiles, he sits up a bit and gestures for him to come over, as though Stiles would seriously go to any other table in this room. 

“You want a drink? I’ll buy it for you,” he says once Stiles is in earshot, cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between two fingers and blows smoke out from his nose as Stiles sits right across from him. “Beer?”

“Ah, sure.” Stiles puts his hands on top of the table, and finds himself wishing he smoked, too, just so he could have something to do with them other than just leaving them there on the tabletop. Derek looks at them, then at Stiles’ face. 

“You want something to eat? Buffalo wings again?”

Stiles smiles at him, all teeth. “After the shit I took the morning after I ate those, no thanks, not ever again.”

Derek actually laughs. It’s short and quick, more of an exhalation of breath than anything else, but it is an honest to god laugh. Stiles has never seen him laugh before, never once. 

The bartender appears and frowns at them both sitting there, puckering her face up, rubbing a bar rag on his hands. “You know, I really shouldn’t be serving him.”

“Since when do you give a fuck about that sort of a thing, Erica?” 

She looks at Stiles, long and steady, narrowing her eyes the longer she looks. “Since you started bringing a witch around. I thought you were just playing with him,” she moves her gaze slowly over to Derek, expression unchanged and flat. “Now, you’re fucking him in the bathroom and buying him drinks every single night.” 

Stiles goes red and says, “we didn’t have sex in there,” loud enough that everyone can hear, so that rumor will finally stop getting spread around. “We just –“

“Just give him a fucking beer,” Derek snaps at her, practically growling, and Erica frowns some more but just heaves out another great big sigh, shaking her head. “And he wants a cheeseburger, too. You want a cheeseburger?” This is directed at Stiles, who opens his mouth to say maybe they should go because it’s clear she has had just about enough of them, but Derek keeps going. “He wants one.”

“Coming right up,” she grouses, shooting Stiles one last glare before sauntering off to pour the beer. As soon as she’s gone, Stiles turns to Derek and leans a bit over the table, lowering his voice in spite of the fact that if any of these people really wanted to hear him, they could, without barely having to try. 

“…maybe we should go.”

“She’s just being a fucking asshole because she thinks we’re, like, dating or something, and I never wanted to date her.”

There is a lot to pick apart in that statement. For starters, the dating bit. Like, he and Derek dating. It’s an absurd word to ascribe to their current situation, for sure, because they’re…well. Them. But Derek had said it. Second, that Derek didn’t want to be with the bartender. 

Stiles glances at her again, where she’s behind the bar grabbing a clean pint glass, moving to the taps, probably picking the grossest one to serve to Stiles. She is pretty, in a very tough sort of way. Stiles would’ve figured that to be Derek’s type, but here he is, claiming that it wasn’t actually his type at all. 

“Dating,” Stiles repeats. 

Derek waves his hand, taking another huge pull off his cigarette. “Fucking, hooking up, whatever.” 

“Oh,” he bites on his index finger just for something to do. “So, uh. You and me is a sort of…active thing. Like, we’re actively doing it. And will continue to…?”

Derek looks at him. It’s this very annoyed look. “What, you want a fucking engagement ring?”

“No,” Stiles immediately says, going red around the face again. “Excuse me for being from the human world, where people give labels to things.”

There is apparently nothing Derek has to say to that, because he just sits there drinking his beer, smoking, frowning, his usual state of being. Stiles should’ve known better than to go asking Derek for answers about what exactly it is that’s going on here between them – what he had said earlier today, about how their curses are somehow interlocking puzzle pieces, is likely the most that Stiles will ever get out of him. It says enough, maybe, but Derek would likely sooner chew his own feet off than ever refer to himself as Stiles’ fucking boyfriend. Hell would sooner freeze over. Derek isn’t that kind of a guy. 

Stiles is, is the thing, embarrassingly enough, so he sulks for a moment, sullen and quiet. Erica brings him his beer, sets it down almost hard enough to break it, and then stalks away with a dramatic flip of her high ponytail. Stiles watches her go, then stares down at his beer, before taking a sip. It is definitely the grossest thing they have on tap, as Stiles had suspected, but he quickly takes another, and another. 

Derek is watching him, like he always is. He says, “don’t drink that too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.” 

“So, you care if I get sick or not,” he puts his pint glass down and peers at Derek with a frown. “Like we’re in a relationship.”

“Will it make you happy if I say that?” He gestures around at nothing, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other. “Sure. I care if you get sick and puke on the table. I care if you get your head bashed in because you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“Oh, whatever,” Stiles grouses, shaking his head and staring out across the bar. “You’re an asshole, dude.”

Derek jabs his cigarette into an ashtray tucked away to the side of the table, and then immediately reaches for another from the pack in his pocket, pulling it out, lighting it. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I guess I don’t know what I want you to say, either,” he mutters, staring down into his beer. Truthfully, he has no idea what he wants Derek to say. What does he expect? That Derek will become all soft and sweet and kiss him and hold his hand and say they’re boyfriends now? What, is Stiles insane or something? The reality is he doesn’t really want Derek to act like that, because a huge part of Derek’s appeal is that he doesn’t act like that. He is an asshole, a big one, and that’s just sort of…him. That’s the deal. “Forget it, I’m being silly. Let’s just forget I said anything.”

Derek regards him for a moment, ashing his cigarette right onto the floor without a care in the world. Who knows what’s going through his mind? “All right.”

They stare at one another. Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Funny, it is a lot easier to be around him when they’re fucking or talking about fucking or talking about death. Stiles cannot stand silence, cannot stand awkward silences most of all, so he’s just getting ready to open his mouth and start babbling about how he hopes his cheeseburger is good, when Derek actually gathers up the stones to speak first. 

“What does your tattoo mean?”

“My tattoo.”

“The one on your thigh,” he explains, pointing to Stiles’ lap. “What does it mean. It’s not in English.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck, sighing through his nose. “It’s in Latin. It’s really just an old spell from an old book.” 

Stiles expects that will be that, because Derek doesn’t like magic and also probably isn’t super interested in hearing about spells, either. Surprisingly though, Derek presses again. “Well, what’s the spell do?”

“Uh, starts fires,” he admits sheepishly, feeling silly saying it out loud. “I like the way the words look, so I…tattooed it.” 

It’s incredible that Derek does not mock him for this, because it ultimately is very silly, and an even sillier thing to go and get tattooed permanently on his body. Derek doesn’t laugh or mock, though, he just nods his head. After all, he has so many stupid fucking tattoos like Pac Man and a big old pine tree that he doesn’t have any right to walk around judging anybody else’s. 

Derek’s eye catch something past Stiles’ head, and he frowns so deep his mouth should go right ahead and fall off his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he mutters, pressing his hands over his eyes. Stiles turns, having absolutely no clue what he expects to see, but he really should’ve seen it coming. 

It’s Laura Hale. She’s storming towards their table in boots that clomp loudly on the cement floor under her feet, all black, hair loose around her face. She looks like she’s coming over here to beat the hell out of either one of them, or both of them, and she’s got someone else with her.

It’s the girl who was manning the door at the fight club, with the red hair. They’re coming for them, but Derek just sits there looking miserable about it, smoking, drinking, the usual. 

“I knew it,” Laura accuses the second she’s upon their table, pointing a finger into Derek’s face menacingly. Behind her, the red haired girl just stands there with her hands tucked into the pockets of a nice jacket, watching this entire thing happen with a sort of detachment. “I knew I’d find you here with him, what are you doing here with him?”

“Fucking drinking,” he gestures at their beers, the entire atmosphere, all of it. 

Stiles clears his throat. He moves to stand, and he starts saying, “maybe I’ll go –“ but Laura grabs him before he’s barely halfway up. She slams him back down into his seat, so the table rattles and Stiles hisses in surprise between his teeth. 

“I went to go visit the gravesite you know,” she puts her hands on her hips, while Derek just palms his face some more, looking miserable. “Yup. I went to pay my fucking respects at the family gravesite, and do you know what I found?”

Derek puts his chin in his palm and frowns, but says nothing. Stiles stares down at the table and wishes he could sink through it, just sink right down underneath it and hide down there, or maybe that someone would throw water on him and he’d melt like the actual Wicked Witch of the West, like Laura had accused him of being. 

“That’s right, I know what you did, you _assholes_ , you _fuckbags_.”

“We didn’t actually _do_ anything –“ Derek tries to defend, but Laura cuts him off. 

“You dug her up and then you left her there, you absolute fucking pieces of shit!” 

“Just the body, Laura, just the sack of fucking bones!” 

“You have no respect for me, my feelings,” she points to her chest. “You didn’t come to me and say, hey, Laura, I want to go meet that fucking necromancer kid and raise mom from the dead, what’s your opinion on that?”

“Like you would have said yes,” he scoffs.

“I should really get going,” Stiles tries to get up again, to escape this conversation, because it is very obviously a family matter that he has absolutely no place in – but Laura grabs him, again, and pushes him back down, _again_. It’s not exactly fun fun fun to be handled this roughly by a werewolf, when he just spent the entirety of last night getting handled three times as roughly by another werewolf, so he winces and scowls down at the table. 

“I would’ve never said yes. I would’ve never even thought to fucking desecrate the remains of our mother by bringing a necromancer there to – to –“ like she can’t even get the words out, she stutters, disgusted by the sheer idea of it, and Stiles sinks deep into his seat, feeling like he might just be the most despised person in this bar, even more than Derek is. “…then you sat there after the fight and pretended like none of it had happened. You lied to my face.” She, for the first time, actually turns and fully looks at Stiles. Her eyes bore into him, and Stiles has this thought of leaping over the back of the booth and making a break for it, but he knows he could never outrun her, so he just sits there, miserable as a rat, while she looks him up and down. “You’re feeding him _drinks_?”

“I’m not feeding him –“

“You said he was nineteen fucking years old, and I come in here, and he’s got a god damn beer in front of him!” 

“He’s –“

Laura reaches out, grabs the pint glass right out from in front of Stiles, and throws it against the opposite wall. It shatters, beer going everywhere, glass going everywhere, and Stiles yelps in surprise, jumping a bit. Derek just sits there, while Laura’s companion stares at her nailbeds with a frown, as though being here at all is more of an annoyance than anything else. 

There is little to no reaction from the rest of the bar patrons to this event – they’re all likely used to this sort of thing, so they just keep on with their conversations, murmuring amongst themselves as shitty rock music plays from the speakers. 

“You are out of control,” Laura goes on, pointing her finger into Derek’s face. “You are out of your god damn mind. What were you thinking, trying to bring mom back like that?”

This is a stupid question, and everyone here knows it. Everyone knows what Derek might have been thinking trying to bring his mother back, like that. It’s the same thing Stiles was thinking when he tried to bring his dad back. 

That he can’t be alone on this earth, anymore. That he wanted someone to look out for him. 

Since Laura knows the answer, she doesn’t wait for one. She just rubs at her forehead, sighing out through her nose and shaking her head, like she’s used to and exhausted of Derek behaving like this. Like her entire life since the fire, maybe even before it, has been cleaning up Derek’s messes. 

“We didn’t even actually do the spell,” Stiles pipes up, so everyone – Laura, Derek, the red haired girl – turns to look at him. “Uh, if it makes you feel any better. Derek got cold feet, so we didn’t…do it.” 

She looks at him. What she must think of him, Stiles can only fucking imagine. With a curl to her lip, she puts her hands on her hips and scowls. “You left your dead fucking raccoon there.”

“Oh,” Stiles shifts a bit, clearing his throat. “He was part of the ritual.”

“Ritual,” Laura repeats, eyebrows going up into her hairline. She turns to Derek, slowly. “You’re hanging around with a kid who uses words like _ritual_.” 

“He’s a witch, Laura,” Derek says, gesturing to Stiles, up and down, “what do you expect?”

“I have never met a witch before,” she says, honest as all get out, turning back to look at Stiles once more. “I don’t know what I expect.” From the way that Laura has acted towards him since day one, Stiles has gotten the idea that she believes he is an inhuman mass of energy that inhabits a flesh vessel and does things like sacrifice all manner of worldly critters to his hell-gods whom he worships. Which is fair, at the same time that it really isn’t. But how would she know? Witches are fewer and fewer every year, because people, werewolves more than most, get a kick out of burning them to death or hanging them from trees. Of course she’s never met one. There aren’t very many left to meet. 

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he starts, putting his hands up as if in surrender. “To you, to your, uh, family. To me, someone’s body is their connection to the physical world, it’s very…sacred. I would’ve put her back. But Derek said it - didn’t matter.” 

Laura’s jaw works. She looks at him, her jaw clenching and unclenching, and then she releases this long suffering sigh, deflating a bit. Her shoulders go less tense, her posture less like that of someone ready to pounce on and kill another person. She sucks in a deep breath, and then she stops. She looks at Stiles again. And this is not a casual look, not even close, or even another one of her murderous glares. This is a complete up and down, searching stare. Like she’s trying to see straight through him, or something. 

Stiles blinks.

She leans in closer to him, closer, _closer_ , mouth twitching, and Stiles moves away on instinct. She gets as close as she can, and then she _inhales_ , taking a great big whiff of him. Stiles is offended, so he jerks away and makes a noise of disgruntlement at this doggish behavior, but Laura’s eyes go big in her skull. 

Her jaw hangs open, as she looks back to Derek. “You’re _sleeping with him_?”

Oh, right. Stiles must reek, from head to toe, like someone who has been recently ravaged by a werewolf. That werewolf, as a matter of fact, and Laura would know better than anyone else here what Derek’s scent all over another person would smell like. He’s embarrassed by this, so he blushes and tries to make himself small – while across from him, Derek downs what’s left of his beer in one go. 

“Oh, yikes, Derek,” it’s the first words the red haired girl has spoken since she got here – said in this low, sort of amused tone, as a grim smile spreads across her face. It’s funny to her. She presses the back of her hand over her mouth and giggles. 

“ _Derek_ ,” Laura sounds shocked. She sounds scandalized, like this is the worst thing that Derek could possibly do, on par with…Christ, fucking a dead body, or something. It’s right on time that Erica appears with Stiles’ cheeseburger. She slaps the plate down onto the table in between himself and Derek and grimaces at them all, before disappearing without a word, as Laura stares at the side of Derek’s face, and Derek doesn’t say anything. What’s he really got to say? Laura knows they’ve fucked. It’s all over Stiles’ skin. No use in denying it. 

Stiles looks at his food. He picks up a fry and eats it, then another, and another, because it’s blessedly something to do and something to look at that isn’t this fucking conversation. The only sound for a moment or two is the crunch of Stiles’ fries as he eats. 

“So, first, it was the girl who killed our entire family, and now it’s this kid,” she gestures to Stiles, who’s got four fries in his mouth at once. “You certainly do know how to pick them.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Derek spits, and he’s angry – really angry. All puffed up, and stiff, and pissed the fuck off. Throughout this entire conversation, he had seemed annoyed at worst and bored at best, but now, for some reason, this comparison between Stiles and that mysterious ex-girlfriend of Derek’s who had burned his house down with his family in it and cursed him to roam the earth not being able to even kill himself from the guilt of it, has made him livid. “You don’t even fucking know him, and you’d say something like that?”

“I know that he’s –“

Derek gets up. He stands up on his feet quickly, coming toe to toe with Laura. They’re almost at equal height, Laura only an inch or two shorter, so they’re in each other’s faces. Behind them, Laura’s friend tenses, like she thinks one of them will seriously harm the other. 

“He’s the only person who can stand to be around me for more than five minutes, or who doesn’t treat me like I’m a fucking burden,” he growls, voice low, and Laura grits her teeth. “That’s including you, _sister_.”

Laura doesn’t say anything. She stands, her fists clenched into fists at her sides, and has been effectively silenced by this accusation. That not even she can tolerate Derek’s presence. That maybe she wishes he had died with the rest of her family, because it would be easier than having to deal with him. That’s horrible, a horrible thing to say, to accuse her of, but she stands there and does not deny it. That’s maybe the worst thing of all. 

“Stiles, let’s go,” Derek barks, gesturing at him with both hands. Stiles is too happy to oblige – he picks up his cheeseburger and a napkin, jumping up as Derek starts to stalk off towards the exit. Once Stiles is in reach, he takes him by his arm and tugs him along, pulling him up against his side, dragging him outside into the night, leaving Laura and her friend behind.


	4. History Repeating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEEESSSSS FINALLLYYYY !!!! It only took me what four months lmfao. I FINALLY have a firm grip on where this is going

They get out into the cool night air, and they start walking. Stiles bites into his burger and just sort of follows Derek’s lead, not a clue where they might be heading. After the first block of Derek storming off, it becomes clear they’re going in the direction of Stiles’ place. Stiles eats and eats, while Derek stomps and glares and has another cigarette, puffing angrily into the night and shaking his head, maybe imagining all of the different things he could’ve and should’ve said to Laura, in the moment. 

Stiles had sort of figured they didn’t have a great relationship. He didn’t know it was all this. 

Outside of Stiles’ place, in the bright red glow of Stiles’ fortune telling sign, Derek stands and smokes. He does it sort of robotically, as though the act of doing it is more of an anxiety stress ball than it is something he actually enjoys doing. He breathes the smoke in, and then he breathes it out, staring blankly with a frown out down the street at nothing and no one. 

Stiles swallows a big bite of his burger and says, “you wanna talk about it?”

It takes a moment or two, but finally Derek blinks and looks at Stiles as though just remembering he were there at all. He looks, at Stiles’ almost finished cheeseburger and Stiles’ unkempt hair and his black nails and his creepy, creepy eyes, and gives him a thin smile. “I’d rather eat nails than get into it.” 

“Okay,” Stiles takes another big bite and chews it, chews it, swallows it. After another beat or two of silence, he says, “you kinda stood up for me back there.”

Derek gives him a sideways glance, but he doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t. 

“No one’s ever really…” Stiles shrugs, finishing off the last of his burger and wiping his hands off on the napkin left in his hands. “…done that before.”

Stiles honestly expects more stony silence, more smoking, more staring blankly out at nothing. Derek would likely enjoy a torture chamber more than he’d enjoy having a touching moment with another person, so it would be no surprise for Derek to just be gruff and distant, even in the wake of what just happened. 

It’s a surprise when Derek actually looks at him. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods his head like he gets it, or maybe even as a _you’re welcome_. They hover outside the bright red glow for another moment or so, just enjoying each other’s silence – until Stiles can’t stand the silence for another second longer.

“Ah,” he gestures to his door, “you wanna come up?”

This, for whatever reason, shocks Derek – a lot, it would seem. He blinks and looks behind him, at the red lights and the store front window. “To your place?” He says this as though going to Stiles’ house is the same as going to Oz. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs. “It’s cozy. I’ll make you tea.” 

“You have tea?” 

“I make my own,” he shrugs, again, and Derek throws his cigarette butt on the ground and stomps it out with a vicious jab of his foot. Stiles unlocks his front door and gestures for Derek to follow him, which Derek does. As soon as they’re both inside, in the dim lights of his closed store, Stiles closes and locks the door behind them, gesturing again for Derek to follow him through the shelves of candles and magical stones and runes towards the back.

They go up the steps, Derek right behind Stiles the entire way, coming up to Stiles’ dark brown front door. Stiles unlocks it, beckons Derek along with him, and in they go. It’s really not much to look at – a handful of bookshelves housing Stiles’ spells and knick knacks, candles, books, rocks, what have you. A bed in the middle of the room with Stiles’ high school laptop blinking on the pillow, a bathroom to the side, and the small kitchen with grimy windows. 

“It’s not quite the fortress of the damned people surely have been imagining,” he says, stepping to the middle of the tiny space and sweeping his arms around himself like _behold, the nothing_. “But it does have a certain charm.” 

Derek looks around. He is hovering by the door like a ghoul, all hunched shoulders and furrowed brows. It’s obvious he feels weird and uncomfortable, with Stiles’ spooky rocks murmuring to each other and the pile of unsold candles reeking to high heavens of love potions and money saving charms. He stands underneath Stiles’ big spooky tapestry with all manner of woodland creatures drawn in medieval style, and just sort of…looms there, for a moment, silent and unmoving. 

“You want tea?”

“It’s not magical, is it?”

“Everything I do has magic in it,” he rolls his eyes and moves to the kitchen, a tiny tiny space without even a stove. He goes into his cabinets and pulls down a mason jar, unscrewing a lid and then hunting for his tea infuser. Derek is still in the living room, glaring at a magic book Stiles had been perusing earlier that is likely taunting the werewolf, because generally speaking, magic books don’t really like having werewolves around. “Just ignore it. Come in here.”

“You know, your books talk.”

“They’re bored.”

“Not everybody has got books that talk,” he leans up against the door jam and frowns, glaring at Stiles’ kitchen like he wishes he were just about anywhere else on earth. “That satanic one you brought to the graveyard. That one talked, too.”

Stiles busies himself with putting the kettle on his hot plate and stuffing tea leaves into an infuser, getting two mugs out of his drying rack. “It did, until you ripped it to pieces.” 

“For your own good.”

“Maybe so.” It was, after all, an ancient evil book handed down to him from generations of witches who swore only to look after it, but never to actually use it. It was one of those sacred items that was bewitched and cursed from the getgo, that maybe someone should’ve just gone ahead and destroyed eons ago instead of making Stiles’ family the gatekeepers for it. Maybe Derek had done him a favor, after all. 

The kettle is on, the mugs and tea ready, so Stiles turns and leans against his counter, folding his arms across his chest. They stand there, Derek rigid and stiff, surrounded by talking books and the acrid stench of magic, Stiles casual and languid. 

“Who was that girl who was there with your sister?” He asks, mostly just to break the silence, but also partially because he really is curious. “She was the one at the door the night I came to see the fight.” 

Derek looks at him. “An old family friend. More Laura’s friend than mine. Her name is Lydia, and she’s one of the most odious people I’ve ever met.” 

“Everyone you’ve met is, in your opinion, fairly odious.”

“Her more than others, trust me,” he scoffs. “She’s one of those people who’s of the opinion that my not being able to die is a curse more on everyone else than it is on me.”

Yikes, Stiles thinks, shaking his head. “Your sister really was upset that we didn’t put your mom back where we found her,” he pries, poking the bear a bit but hoping it doesn’t send him off too much. 

“It was just the body,” he’s only said this a half a dozen times since all that happened, but Stiles never gets what he means when he says it. It wasn’t just a body, it was her body, the one that she used to be here on this earth. He doesn’t get the mentality Derek has, where it’s nothing, means nothing, is nothing. “She’s more upset that I brought magic around the gravesite, I think, ultimately.” 

“Oh,” Stiles scuffs his shoes against the linoleum underfoot. 

“Even more so, she’s upset that I exist at all to do things like that in the first place. She hates the fighting and the money and everything I do and everyone I hang around with. It’s just kind of a general hate of my existence.” 

“I don’t think that’s –“

“Don’t be nice,” he narrows his eyes. “I can tell when you’re being nice but don’t mean it.”

Stiles shuts his mouth. He was just being nice, after all. For all Stiles honestly knows, Derek’s sister does hate him. For all Stiles knows, she blames him for what happened to their family even though it wasn’t really even his fault, and she resents him for being the only other person left standing, resents him for having this curse and doing nothing with it, not a single useful thing. It would be fair of her, perhaps, to hate him. 

But it would also be unfair, at the same time. It’s like that, sometimes. Fair and unfair. 

The kettle squeals, so Stiles turns and shuts his hot plate off. As he pours the hot water over the tea and watches it turn a darker color, he hears Derek’s feet moving off and away, into the living room, where the books are still talking about what the actual hell Derek Hale thinks he’s doing here. 

They know him. The books know his name and they know who he is. Stiles ponders that only briefly, and then he shrugs it off, because really, those books know all sorts of things. They may be smarter than an average living breathing person. 

Stiles finds Derek sitting on the edge of Stiles’ bed, the black sheets suiting his general disposition rather nicely. He hands Derek his tea and then sits down beside him, so their thighs are touching, and sips. They sit in quiet, the books settling down and a silence descending upon them. 

Derek is staring down at his tea like he isn’t sure he wants to drink it. Then, like he’s being forced to do so, he brings it to his lips. Swallows. His eyebrows go up. “That’s not bad. What is this?” 

“It’s vanilla and lavender.” 

“Huh,” he grunts. He drinks some more. “Is it going to put a hex on me?” 

“Ha,” Stiles grins. “You’ve got no clue what a hex is, do you?”

“How would I? I’ve barely seen you do any magic. You’ve got all this talk about how you’re a powerful witch and plenty of people,” namely his sister, “think you’re dangerous. Prove it.” 

“Prove it?” 

“Yeah,” he gestures, a meaningless thrust of his hand, “knock me out or something. Do some real magic.” 

“You want me to use real magic on you.” 

Derek shrugs, like it’s no big deal. And the only reason he thinks it’s not big deal is because he truly has no idea just what kinds of things Stiles could do. Stiles has threatened it, yes, many times. But he’s never actually performed any tricks for him. 

Derek stands and sets his mug of tea down on Stiles’ bedside table. Then he gestures with both hands to his chest like, go for it, try me, let’s do it. Stiles sighs through his nose. “Do your worst.”

“Oh, you don’t want me to do my worst.” 

“There you go again. You’re all talk.” 

Stiles can’t help from smiling, because he knows Derek is just taunting him. It’s something that Derek is probably good at, considering he fights people literally every day in his life and has got to have the whole ‘smack talking’ part of it nailed down like a science. 

He waves his hand in the air and watches Derek go flying across his living room to slam his entire body into the farthest wall – it rattles with the impact. The entire apartment rattles, probably even the window to his shop downstairs. Some dry wall and paint chips come down with him when he hits the floor, and he grunts. 

The wind is knocked out of him. When Stiles comes to hover over him with a sly smile, Derek is staring up at him, blinking, dumbfounded. “What the hell was that,” he says through grit teeth. He’s just lying there, looking up at Stiles, eyes confused and dazed. 

“Magic,” Stiles tells him. He offers him a hand, and Derek takes it, even though Stiles is no help and he doesn’t really need it. 

“If you can do things like that, why don’t you?” He sits up and brushes dust off of his jacket, shaking his head all disoriented. “I feel like I just went through a wormhole.” 

“Because. I can’t just walk around doing that to random werewolves, not even ones that deserve it. One wolf, I can take. If they gang up on me, that’s a problem.” 

Derek blinks. “I’m fucking freaked out by you.” 

That makes Stiles smile, nice and wide. “To me, that’s a compliment.” 

“What other kinds of things can you do?” He is still sitting there on the ground and is making no moves to get up, so Stiles parks himself down on the rug next to him, criss-crossing his legs, and shrugging. “Can you…fly?” 

Stiles laughs out loud. “When I turn into a bat, you mean?” 

“You’ve made that joke before,” Derek narrows his eyes. “I’m starting to think it’s not a fucking joke.” 

“It is a fucking joke, and no I cannot fly. Or teleport. Or jump through time and space. I’m just –“ he gestures around at his candles, his books, his tapestries, and then shrugs. “…I’ve got magic in me. I can do whatever I want, within reason.” 

Derek mulls this over for a moment. Then, he points to one of Stiles’ candles nearby, on the coffee table. “Make that float.” 

“Now I’m doing tricks on demand?” 

“Humor me.” 

Stiles sighs. But he does as he’s asked – he snaps his fingers and both of them watch as the candle rattles for a moment and then slowly lifts into the air like it’s being pulled by a string. Derek stares at it like he’s never seen anything like it, blinking and curious, in a way Stiles would’ve never expected him to be. Stiles snaps again and the candle gently lowers itself down, and Stiles shrugs. No big deal. 

“I can’t believe I’ve spent so long thinking witches suck,” he murmurs, giving Stiles a side eye. “It’s…impressive.” 

Stiles shrugs again, but he feels the tips of his ears go pink. Yeah, maybe it is. No one has ever thought so before, but fuck it. Derek Hale thinks so. And lately, Derek Hale’s opinion is important to him for whatever reason. So it makes him bashful to hear it. 

“I want to fuck your god damn lungs out.” 

Yikes. “That’s nice,” Stiles tells him, “but I’m still recovering from last time.” 

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You and gentle are not two things that can go together,” he laughs, and it’s true. Derek could not be gentle if Stiles paid him to be. “Don’t get me wrong. It was fun and we can do it again. Just…I’m fragile.” 

“Maybe your skin,” he reaches out and grips Stiles on the arm, his good arm, all pale and freckles and no death to speak of. “But inside you’re all nails.” 

Stiles doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes. “Is that what you like about me?”

This is a risky question. For all Stiles knows, Derek likes precisely nothing about Stiles except for the fact he’s a fun human chew toy he can fuck and throw around. 

Derek scoots a bit closer to him on the floor, so their legs are touching, so they’re nearly sharing the same breaths. “What I like about you,” he starts, and his voice is low, “is that you fucking treat me like I actually exist.” 

At first, Stiles does not get that. He frowns and makes a confused face, that Derek notices and reads for what it is. 

“Like I’m not just an animal. Or a burden. Or something to fuck with.” 

Oh. Stiles bites his lip and nods. “I know how that feels,” he confesses, scratching nervously at the black spot on his arm. “I’m sorry your sister – well. I’m just sorry.” 

Derek nods. He doesn’t say anything to that. He just accepts Stiles’ condolence and he knows that it encapsulates more than just his sister, it means everything. The fighting and the death of his family and that he couldn’t bring his mother back to life and just all of it. Stiles really is sorry. There’s not much else to say. 

He knows that Derek will never ask even if he does genuinely want to know, so he takes the initiative and says it anyway. “What I like about you is that you tell the truth,” he offers. “Um. And you are so hot.” 

Derek’s lips quirk. Stiles always takes it as a personal win when he manages to make Derek laugh or smile, even when it’s barely there. Without asking, maybe because they are past the point of needing to ask each other for permission to touch, Derek reaches out and runs his fingers down Stiles’ dark mark. 

The touch is reverent. It is as though he is touching something he knows he shouldn’t be, but cannot help himself all the same. “You know what it’s like to have no one,” he says, voice tight.

Stiles nods. He does know what it’s like to have no one. 

Derek’s lips are a grim, even line. “What you were saying at the bar earlier, before Laura showed up and shat all over everything.” He pauses. He traces the outline of Stiles’ scar again and again, and it tickles, so Stiles shivers. “That bullshit about if we’re fucking or what.” 

He lets it hang there for a moment. “…yeah?” 

“I’m not a little bitch. I don’t use terms like that.” 

“Like fucking?” 

“No, like dating.” 

“Oh,” he blinks. He cannot fucking imagine what Derek is trying to get at, here. 

“But if I asked you a favor, would you do it for me?” 

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “If it doesn’t involve going back to the cemetery, sure.” 

Derek looks him square in the eyes. He grips Stiles’ arm right on his mark, maybe just to feel it as close to him as he possibly can. “Just don’t fuck anyone else.” 

Stiles snorts. “It’s not like I’m beating them off with a stick as it is.” 

“Look, I’m being fucking vulnerable right now,” he bursts out, suddenly very angry. “I’m telling you that the thought of someone else putting their hands on you makes me want to fucking go insane.” 

“Okay,” he says quickly, putting his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I just meant – I hadn’t had any plans of hooking up with anyone else anyway. Which is what I was getting at back at the bar. Then you mocked me. Remember?” 

Derek makes a sour face. “Just because I won’t hold your god damn hand doesn’t mean anything.” 

Stiles would bet a million dollars that on the right day at the right time and when Derek was in the right mood, he would probably hold Stiles’ hand. He might not go walking down the street skipping with him or anything, but Stiles has learned one thing about Derek in their time together. 

He may be covered in barbed wire and broken glass, but his inside is all fuzz. Stiles has seen brief glimpses of it before. 

“I won’t have sex with anyone else,” he says, mostly just for Derek’s benefit. Derek nods like he appreciates the sentiment, so then they are just sitting there looking at one another. Derek has still got his hand on Stiles’ arm, and his index finger absentmindedly traces over the skin again and again. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to have sex?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “My asshole is one big bruise. I’m serious.” 

Derek moves closer to him, so his jeans scrape on the rug under his body. “I’ll lick it for you.” 

“Holy shit,” he goes bright red and laughs out loud, because that is hands down the grossest thing anyone has ever fucking said to him. The worst part is, it sounds like a great idea, truly it does, but… “let’s just leave it alone for a day or so. Then you can – you can do that.” 

Derek leans into him and presses his nose into Stiles’ neck, taking in a deep breath. He sniffs for ten or fifteen seconds, while Stiles stares out across the room at his bookshelves. The books are tittering to each other, have likely been listening and watching this entire time. Who knows what they make of this entire thing? 

Most of them belonged to his mother. They’re probably hating every second of this. 

He moves to kiss Stiles on the mouth, probably one of those insane kisses from before, but Stiles pulls away with a small smile. “Maybe we could do it my way, for once?” 

Derek hovers inches from Stiles’ face. “Your way meaning…?”

“I’ll show you.” 

They move closer. Derek swallows and Stiles can hear it, they’re so close. Gently, he presses his lips against Derek’s and kisses, so soft it’s feather light. Derek moves to make it crazy like he can’t help himself, grabbing Stiles so rough he has no choice but to be pressed right up against Derek’s solid chest, but Stiles laughs. 

“Just let me kiss you,” he pushes back with his hands against Derek’s chest. “Like normal.” 

“Can’t do normal,” he insists. “I want you too bad.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes – there may be no getting out of this one. He relents and acquiesces, nodding to give Derek the go ahead, and Derek doesn’t even hesitate. He grabs Stiles by his face and attacks him, all tongue and teeth, and Stiles closes his eyes. 

There’s a brief pause where Derek breaks away to adjust his body, practically thrusting himself on top of Stiles in the process. Stiles grunts because he’s heavy and huge and he’s not gentle about it either, grabbing Stiles and pushing him down on the ground, grinding their hips together. He moans and then he shakes his head, stopping Derek with a single hand in the air between them. 

“I can’t, seriously.” 

Derek sighs. Then, he climbs off of Stiles and thumps down onto his ass right next to him, just like they were before. “It’s cool,” he shrugs. 

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“You mind if I crash here?” 

Stiles raises his eyebrow. “You seriously want to? In spite of the nonsense of it all?” Stiles would have figured that Derek would sooner chew glass than willingly sleep in Stiles’ creepy little apartment. 

But, Derek nods. “You get used to it,” he waves his hand to the books again, before he uses that same hand to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to jump out the window rather than say this, but say it he does. “…I’m tired of sleeping by myself.” 

Stiles’ heart clenches in his chest and he nods, because he gets it, he gets it more than he’d ever care to admit. In this moment, Derek is his big scary teddy bear, not meeting Stiles’ eyes and being all honest and soft. 

They get up and Stiles busies himself with cleaning up their tea mugs, dumping them out and then rinsing them before setting them up in the drying rack. When he comes back into the living room, Derek is pulling his shirt off over his head, before unbuckling his jeans and shucking those into a pile on the ground. 

It’s the first time Stiles has ever seen him without clothes on in a scenario where he can actually stop and look at all the tattoos without getting sidetracked by sex or fighting. He lingers his gaze on all of them, one by one, as Derek’s back muscles move. 

They are just….awful. Stiles snorts as he approaches, and Derek turns and cocks his head to the side. “I’m just musing about how much I hate your tattoos.”

That makes Derek smirk. “What’s wrong with my tattoos?” 

He’s close enough to touch, so he does. He points to Pac Man in specific, right on Derek’s left bicep, like that is all the evidence he needs. “This, for starters.”

“It’s not just Pac Man for no reason, you know. We used to play it all the time when I was a kid.” It’s hard to imagine Derek as a kid with a house and a family and a Nintendo that he could play video games on. 

Stiles moves to another spot on Derek’s arm. The phases of the moon, all lined up next to each other in dark black ink. “Cheesy.” 

“I’m a wolf. The moon is my entire life.” 

Stiles points to the owl on his abdomen. 

“I like owls,” he shrugs. 

“They are all so, so bad. Even your snake tattoo is worse than others I’ve seen.” 

“I didn’t even want the stupid snake tattoo,” he shakes his head. “You can’t get away with not getting it in this town. It’s a tribal thing.”

Stiles wishes he could explain that, but honestly, he does not understand the primal, tribal nature of werewolves. It’s hard to understand it for him in specific, because as a witch, he’s never had anything even remotely resembling a tribe. Just himself. Him alone. 

He trails his eyes across all of Derek’s ink, and Derek lets him. He seems amused by Stiles’ disdain for them, like he thinks it’s a cute little personality trait of Stiles’ to be a sarcastic little shit who judges things like other people’s tattoos. There are trees and more moons and other animals, and other silly things like lemons, and then there’s an odd one, right by where his heart would be. 

It’s a strange shape. It’s got a purplish-red tint that seems bizarre for a tattoo artist to use. Stiles traces his fingers on it, and he looks at it more closely, before realization dawns on him. “This is the curse,” he assesses, and Derek nods, once. “I figured one as strong as that would leave a mark. Oof, and a big one,” he keeps touching it, feeling the raised skin and frowning. 

It’s deep. It’s powerful. Whoever did this did it with hatred. Curses are made stronger by the emotions you put into them. And this one in particular was given life by the force of pure, undiluted loathing. There’s something familiar about the shape of it, Stiles notes, cocking his head to the side as he stares at the dips and grooves of it. 

Derek says, “when it first happened I didn’t know what it was. I felt it was something bad, because most things that are bad enough to leave a mark even on werewolves are extremely bad. But I didn’t realize what she had done until the fire.” 

Yeah. When his entire family burned alive all around him, and he stayed living throughout the entire thing, watching it happen. Stiles’ eyes prick with tears because it’s horrible, but he won’t cry, if only because it would make Derek uncomfortable. 

“Why?” He asks instead. 

Derek looks at him. “She hated what we were,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You know what it’s like to be hated for your nature.” 

There seems to be no end of the things about one another that they both just innately understand. They understand pain together and loneliness together and misery together and death together. These things feel like links of a chain that is locking them together. 

“There is no greater punishment on this earth than being forced to live on it even when you don’t want to,” Stiles says to him. 

“Hell would be preferable,” he agrees.

“I can’t imagine you ever did anything to deserve it.” 

Derek looks away. As though the suggestion of him not being a terrible piece of shit like everyone else thinks makes him uncomfortable. He climbs into Stiles’ bed and as he does so he asks, “which side is yours?” 

“The left.” 

Derek goes to the right and lies down, pilfering one of Stiles’ pillows and supporting his head with it. 

Stiles undoes his own jeans and slides them off of his legs, Derek’s eyes on him the entire time. He gets in next to Derek and they lie beside one another, staring at the ceiling. “Wanna see something neat?” 

Derek nods. There was a time not that long ago that Derek actively hated whenever Stiles did magic, hated anything having to do with witches or magic in general – now, here he is, letting Stiles do tricks for him like he enjoys it. 

Stiles waves his hand up at his ceiling and watches as stars fall behind it. They stick themselves to his ceiling like they belong there, glowing and blinking at them from up above. He makes a constellation and then another one, while Derek watches his every move with rapt attention, lips parted, because he’s never seen anything like this before. 

“Can you make the moon?” 

Stiles can, and he does. He sticks a big old crescent moon to his ceiling, so it lights up the entire room in bright, endless white. Derek’s skin looks natural under its glow, because the moon is where he belongs. “This was my nightlight when I was a kid.” 

Derek is quiet. He stares up and he seems thoughtful, his eyes lit up with fake stars. He’s entranced by it, and of course he would be. The night sky is his favorite thing in the world, maybe second only to the woods. 

They fall asleep underneath Stiles’ made up sky, tangled up in each other’s limbs.

** 

Stiles wakes up to the bed shifting around, and when he turns over, he finds Derek sitting on the edge of it, pulling his shirt over his head. Stiles blinks at him and frowns, confused, rasping out, “where you goin?”

Derek looks over his shoulder once, then stands and starts putting his jeans on. “I’ve got a fight today. I need to get ready.”

“Oh.” He rubs the sleep from his eyes and checks his phone for the time – seven o’clock. He has plenty of time before he has to open the store, so he settles back down into the sheets, watching Derek buckle his belt. “Um. Is it a big fight?” 

“They’re all the same,” he says, gruff. He finds his leather jacket on the floor and he shakes it off before he pulls it onto his body and then adjusts it so it’s sitting just right. He looks at Stiles, frowns and furrows his brow like he’s feeling angry, and says, “I want you to be there.” 

Stiles is surprised. He sits up, balancing his weight with his hands held underneath him. “To the fight?”

“I’ll put your name on the list,” he says. “I’ll feed you.” 

Stiles had sworn up and down that he would never set foot in that god damn fight club building again, not as long as he lived. It was terrible. He saw people’s insides and everyone looked at him like they wanted to eat him. 

But, Derek is being sincere. Or, he’s being sincere in his way, which is to be gruff and grumble and not make direct eye contact. He genuinely wants Stiles to be there. For whatever reason. 

“…all right,” he agrees. 

Derek stares at him for a moment more. “It’s at eleven. If you come early we can have sex before.” 

“Uh,” Stiles laughs. He can’t help himself. Derek is being deathly serious, but Stiles laughs, because that’s nuts. But as a werewolf, sex and violence go hand in hand for him. It’s probably a dream come true to fuck and fight on the same night, like the amount of adrenaline he’ll get from doing both will make him high or something. “Okay. Noted.” 

Derek looks. He traces his eyes over Stiles’ bare torso. “See you there.”

He storms out of the apartment and slams the door behind him, leaving Stiles blinking after him, shaking his head.

What an absolute psychopath, Stiles thinks to himself. 

He showers and eats some stale Frosted Flakes with no milk for breakfast, and then he goes downstairs and opens up shop for the day. He spends most of his time dusting off shelves and reflecting over everything that Derek had said or done last night, replaying it again and again in his head as though to try and make sense of any of it. 

Stiles has always been the king of over analyzing situations, even ones that are fairly simple, and this is no exception at all. Though, Derek really isn’t that hard of a puzzle to solve, when all is said and done. He may be gruff and hard, but he’s been pretty clear with his intentions ever since they had sex at his house. 

It’s just…a lot. They are insane. Their relationship is ten different shades of weird. And the weirdest part is Stiles still isn’t sure if he should be referring to it as a relationship. 

He’s just started rearranging his candle display when someone actually comes in – the bell ting-tings and he turns around to greet them, and then the words die off in his throat. 

It’s Laura Hale. She’s standing there with her hands stuffed into her coat pockets, looking around at all of Stiles’ magical wares. She doesn’t look very impressed, but she doesn’t look openly hostile, either. 

Stiles is still on high alert. This woman does not like him, and who knows what she has come here to do. He watches her every move like a hawk, until she meets his eyes. “Hi,” she barks at him like she’s mad about the word itself. 

“…hi.” 

She flicks her chin at Stiles’ stuff and says, “this seems like a lot for a nineteen year old boy to be able to afford.” 

He clears his throat. “I paid for it with insurance money, and I make most of this stuff myself.” 

“Uh huh,” she moves forward and picks up a bunny’s foot, frowns at it, and then puts it back down. “I’d know a thing or two about insurance money.” 

And she sure would. 

“Look, if you’re going to try and claw me to death, can we just get it over with?” 

Laura looks at him. She’s got the scariest fucking way of looking at people that Stiles has ever seen, but he stands his ground, wills himself to look big and tough instead of skinny and young. She laughs at him and shakes her head. “I’m not here to claw you to death. Not just because I’m sure you could take me if you were really forced to fight me,” she steps forward, towards him, and Stiles grits his teeth, “but also because I’m sure Derek would have my head if I did.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Well.” She stops, just a few feet away from him, and frowns. She’s standing next to a shelf full of crystal balls. “My brother hasn’t taken an interest in anyone in years. You know, last time he did, our whole family sorta died. That was traumatic.” 

“Sorta,” Stiles agrees. 

She jingles something she has in her coat pocket that sounds a lot like either car keys or loose change. “Look. I wanted to apologize for being a fucking cunt.” 

“Well…” 

“You’re a kid,” she observes him, up and down. The ratty old converse and the ripped jeans and his band t-shirt. His little store full of things he spends his days meticulously crafting but that no one around here cares about or appreciates, because there is no one else like him. “I realize you’re a kid. Before, I thought you maybe weren’t even human. But you are.” 

“Not fully,” he argues. 

“You are,” she insists this the same way that Derek always insists it, as well. Like there’s no way she could possibly be wrong about it. 

“In my defense, I don’t think I’ve been a ‘kid’ for a long time.” 

She observes him some more. Stiles wonders what she must see in him, if anything. “No, maybe not. I still think of Derek as my kid brother even though he’s 24 years old. You know. That sort of means I’ve gotta look out for him. I dropped the ball on that once before and it’s something I live with every single fucking day.” 

Stiles blinks, because it surprises him to hear her say that. Maybe she doesn’t blame that fire entirely on Derek’s mistakes, after all – he never thought of it this way, but Stiles had only heard Derek’s retelling of events. And his version of the story is colored with his own guilt and self-loathing. He never considered how that might have changed the narrative. 

“I’m not terribly keen on doing it again. Which is why I’m not crazy about you hanging around him. You sort of have a reputation for…” she moves her hand in the air as she searches for the right words. “…being trouble.” 

Trouble. Yes. Stiles is certainly no stranger to trouble. His whole life has been trouble. He thinks he’s cursed from birth, but that’s another matter entirely. So that’s not a point he really has it in him to argue, and he stays quiet. 

“But, uh, he seems to actually give a shit about you. And to tell the truth, I really can’t remember the last time my brother gave a rat’s ass about anything. Not even himself. All this is just to say it’s – I mean. I’ve thought about it and slept on it. You and him. It’s cool. With me. I was a bitch. And you’re young. It wasn’t cool of me.” 

“It’s fine,” he says, deciding only just then that it is. He can hold a grudge better than most, but this is Derek’s sister, and Derek is someone who, whether either of them like it or not, is sort of important to him. “…Derek is my only friend. My only…anything. So.” 

She looks at him and she looks her age, in this moment. Because her gaze is soft and motherly, and she’s looking at Stiles like she knows him. She knows he’s all alone in the world with nothing and no one but his talking magic books and the devil on his shoulder. And she feels sorry for him. 

“I’m sorry that we left your mom’s body out there in the open,” he had already apologized for this before, but he feels the need to reiterate it once again. “It wasn’t right, but Derek was adamant and - I’m just sorry.”

She nods her head once, tight and terse. “Well, fuck it. Maybe it is just a stupid bag of bones.” 

Not to Stiles. Wolves don’t seem to have as high a regard for the natural order of things, like Stiles does. Then again, Stiles shat all over the natural order of things when he brought his dad back, so maybe he shouldn’t be so judgmental about this shit. 

“It’s true what they say, I guess. About how broken people have edges that match,” she presses her hands together pinky to pinky, edge to edge, to mime puzzle pieces coming together. “My brother needs a friend as badly as you do, so I won’t get in the way. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Stiles agrees quickly. This whole thing has gone better than he had expected it to. 

“I better get going. But I’ll see you around?” 

“You definitely will,” he says, leaning back against his counter casually now that he’s certain she’s no threat to him. “Derek has requested my presence at his fight.” 

She rolls her eyes so hard all he sees for a moment is the whites of them. “Fantastic,” she bites, turning on her heel to push the door open with the bell ringing above her head.

** 

Stiles shows up to the fight at nine thirty. He changes his clothes so he’s in all black in the hopes that he’ll blend in a bit more or at least just not stick out like a sore thumb, but he knows it’s pointless either way. There are people here already, yes, drinking and smoking because even before the fights the place is still a bar, but not nearly as many as will be here later on when the entertainment starts.

They stare at him and whisper. Likely about how he’s fucking Derek Hale and now that means they can’t burn him at the stake like they desperately want to. He turns his nose up at them and heads for the door, where the red haired friend of Laura’s, Lydia, is standing with her arms crossed. 

“Stiles,” she greets, tone cool. “You look like a chew toy.”

He does not know if that’s a compliment or an insult or perhaps a little bit of both. He says, “thanks,” all the same. “Derek said I’m on the list now…?” 

She has no clipboard or anything in her hand. The list must be one she has in her head. “You are. Just try not to piss anyone off while you’re in there. It’s almost the full moon,” she points up, above their heads, and Stiles blinks at the cloudless sky, the moon bright. He had forgotten about that. “Wolves tend to get a little more territorial, among other things. I’d really hate it if you got torn to pieces. Derek’s enough of a sad sack as it is. If he lost his favorite new toy he’d be unbearable.” 

Stiles hates this conversation. He gives her a look, can’t come up with anything to say, and then skirts past her into the bowels of the wolves. 

It’s loud and dark inside. The music is at full volume and he has no idea how he’s supposed to find Derek in here. He stands there for a moment trying to seek him out, fruitlessly, and then he sighs and makes his way to the bar where most of the people here are crowding. 

He steps up to an empty space to wait for the bartender, and the wolf-girl next to him stares. She’s got a big claw mark down her face and Stiles tries not to stare at it as he looks at her. “Have you seen Derek Hale?” He asks her.

She sucks on her straw, but says nothing. 

“Thanks,” he snaps at her and scowls. She sips her drink some more and then smiles at him, and her teeth are sharp. Really sharp. Like she has filed them down to be that sharp. 

“I’ve heard you can bring people back from the dead.” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake… 

“Just fuck off,” he bites and faces forward, still waiting for the bartender’s attention. He’s not here to be everyone’s FUCKING Barbie dream necromancer who brings people back to life at will. 

She touches him. Reaches out and runs her long fingers down his back – for one terrifying second he seriously thinks she’s going to slash him open with her claws, but she doesn’t. She’s just messing with him, as a predator does with their food, and Stiles blanches. 

He turns with the intent to zap her to hell and back, his fingers already crackling with the energy to do exactly that – and then Derek’s mousy friend that Stiles never actually met the last time he came to one of these things is right there in between the two of them. Scott, his name was, if Stiles’ memory serves him correctly. 

“Stiles,” he greets, grabbing him by his arm and grinning from ear to ear. “Getting into trouble?” 

“She just –“ he starts to defend, and she smiles wider. Like she thinks the prospect of getting the living shit beat out of her by Derek Hale is fun. Which was probably her end goal all along. Werewolves are complete fucking freaks. “Whatever. Where is he?” 

Scott uses his hold on Stiles’ arm to begin leading him away, through the crowd. As they go, people part for them and stop and stare, and Stiles ignores it. He’s getting used to it, at this point. 

They find Derek sitting at a table near the way back, and he’s not got a shirt on. It’s just him, bare chested with his jeans slung low on his hips, sitting and drinking a beer. There are four or five empty glass bottles on the tabletop alongside a plate with tacos laid out on it, so he’s probably decently buzzed, but his eyes are clear when Stiles gets close enough to really see them. 

The first thing he says when Stiles is in earshot is, “I heard my sister came to your store today.” 

Stiles sits. He looks at the empty beers while Scott sits down on the other side of him, leaning back so his chair creaks. “She did. It actually wasn’t bad. She told you that?”

Derek sips his beer. “I heard about it. Her and I don’t really speak.”

“It really wasn’t bad,” he repeats to drill the point home. “She didn’t even claw me. She could have. She just chose not to. Which I think was big of her, considering.”

He lights a cigarette and frowns. He looks unbelievably sexy in the dim bar lights with his chest damp with sweat as though he had been training for this fight earlier, smoking a cigarette and glowering. Stiles thinks himself sick in the fucking head to find it sexy, but he can’t help himself. He’s in this thing now. With Derek. 

“What’d she say to you?” 

“That she’s okay if we’re – you know,” he looks away, across the bar, where there’s a couple very intensely coupling not too far away. Werewolves generally are not shy about PDA, but of course, Stiles got stuck with the one werewolf on earth who would rather die than hold his hand. “Whatever it is we’re doing.” 

“She said that?” 

Scott reaches out to grab one of the tacos, but Derek slaps his hand away loudly, so he recoils in surprise. 

“She did. She said she’s not mad at me anymore.” 

They stare at one another across the table, while Scott looks between the two of them again and again, as though he’s trying to read the situation to figure out what’s going on between them. He can join the club, because not even Stiles knows what’s going on between them. 

Derek pushes the tacos at Stiles and grunts, “these are for you.” 

It’s not surprising. Stiles is beginning to suspect that Derek thinks of him as his pet that he has to feed and look after; it would be insulting if it weren’t for the fact that he sort does need to feed Stiles. He immediately picks up a taco and starts eating, taking a huge bite that leaves guacamole leaking out of one end onto the plate underneath him. 

As he chews, Scott complains. “You never get me any food.” 

“Just – don’t you have somewhere to be?” Derek barks at him. “He’s here to talk to me, not you.” 

He puts his hands up in surrender and stands from the table, shooting Stiles a big grin, like this is all funny to him or something. “I’ll leave you alone,” he starts backing away, and as he does, he tacks on, “with your boyfriend,” in a tone that suggests he knows he might get his head taken off for saying it. 

Before Derek gets the chance he turns and vanishes into the crowd to go find someone else to annoy, while Derek frowns so deep his mouth should fall off and smokes some more. 

“Who is that kid?” 

“A nuisance.”

“But why is he –“ 

“He was my friend before the fire,” he explains, and that gives Stiles some pause. He finishes a big bite and swallows it, watching Derek’s expression and movements closely. 

“…and now he’s not?” 

Derek looks at him and takes another drag. He blows gray smoke out through his nose and he looks good doing it, which is another one of his perverted gross thoughts that he needs to stop having. “I’m not much for friends anymore.” 

“What about me? I’m definitely your friend.” 

Derek’s lips quirk as though it’s funny. “You are not my friend, Stiles.” 

Stiles would be offended, but he says it in just a certain way. The tone, the inflection, his body language. He’s saying one thing but he means another, Stiles is sure of it. It makes his face hot. 

“He reminds me of life before. It’s why I keep him around.” 

“I get that.”

“And he’s annoying but he’s –“ he gestures vaguely, like saying things like this is hard for him. “…trustworthy.” 

Stiles eats and they fall into comfortable silence, surrounded by loud yelling and thumping music and glass shattering as fights break out that no one seems to care about. Some people give them side eyes or stare for as long as they dare, but nobody approaches them. It’s kind of nice to be left alone. In any other scenario Stiles probably would have been harassed to within an inch of his life, so he relishes in the feeling of being more feared than hated, for the moment. 

Derek chain smokes and watches Stiles eat. Stiles would be creeped out by it, but he’s learning that Derek sort of has no social graces and has no genuine clue that staring at someone eating tacos is weird. He doesn’t say much. Stiles sort of has a lot of things to ask him but at the same time, he knows that Derek prefers to sit with Stiles in dead silence, so he focuses on his food and keeps his thoughts to himself. 

When the time comes for the actual fight, Stiles gets nervous. Derek is nonchalant and careless, barely stretching as they walk toward the center of the room where it will all take place, just like before. Stiles’ heartbeat spikes and he thinks about having to sit there watching Derek get bloodied and beaten, and he wants to say he actually would much rather not do that, thanks, but he thinks it would hurt Derek’s feelings. 

It’s weird to think of him as having feelings. He does. And he asked Stiles to be here. So Stiles will sit here and watch even if it makes him throw up. 

He hovers to the side as the usual chaos continues all around him; there’s bets being made on the fight just ten feet away from him, and Stiles really doesn’t get the point of betting on a fight where Derek Hale is fighting. He’s going to win. Don’t they know that? Some of them might hate him enough to bet against him on principle alone no matter how much money it costs them, which is their loss. 

Derek pats him on the back. It might be the equivalent of a kiss as far as PDA is concerned, so Stiles accepts it and watches him move to head to the center of the room where a circle is already forming. The lights dim and people go nuts, pushing and shoving one another to get to the front so they won’t miss any of the action. 

Stiles winds up surrounded by werewolves on all sides, but they keep their distance from him, at least two feet. He’s in the front, which is bad news for him because now he has no choice but to stand and watch this entire thing happen blow by blow, with no one to hide behind. 

He keeps his hands in his pockets. In this moment, he really feels his age. Everyone around him seems so much older and bigger than him, and he feels like a kid in college waiting at the bus stop, in his black jeans and black hoody. 

The guy Derek is fighting is big. He looks like in another life, where he was a human and not a wolf, he’d be in UFC fights, and he’d be good at it. He’s bigger than Derek by a decent margin, and his tattoos are scary. They’re all black and aggressive, rippling with his body and his muscle mass, and Stiles doesn’t like the look of him. 

He balls his hands into fists in his pockets when the fighting starts. Derek sips his beer one last time, and then sets it aside on the ground, and as soon as he stands back up to his full height, he gets punched in the face. Something cracks in his skull and Stiles grits his teeth, watching Derek stagger back. 

He does not like this. 

It keeps going. Derek is good at fighting because he has to be and also because he has nothing else to do with his time other than learn how to fight better, so even though this guy is a fucking animal, Derek holds his own. At one point Derek gets a big fist right to his mouth, and it sends him sprawling back in Stiles’ direction. 

He catches himself just before knocking Stiles over, and looks him right in the eyes. He has blood all over his face, he’s sweaty, and he grins. Stiles stares at him, watching as he spits a giant wad of his own blood right down onto the floor at Stiles’ feet. Like it means something. Stiles isn’t well versed in werewolf gestures, so he has no fucking clue what spitting blood at Stiles’ feet could possibly mean – either way, the other wolf notices it. And this is not a gesture that goes over _his_ head. 

Big footsteps approach, and he grabs Derek to toss him off to the side, out of his way, so then it’s just Stiles and this fucking monster of a werewolf standing here looking at one another.

Stiles frowns at him. They share eye contact for a split second, as Derek tries to hustle himself up to his feet to stop him before he can do anything else, as the wolves who had been standing around Stiles suddenly all step away like they don’t want to be involved with whatever’s about to happen. 

It is not a surprise when big hands grab him. Stiles sighs through his nose as he’s aggressively handled, werewolf paws gripping him and pressing him tight against a sweaty chest, claws almost digging into his flesh. 

“Maybe I can’t kill you, Hale,” he growls, and it is deeply, deeply animal. It is hardly a human voice, and it sends a chill down Stiles’ spine. His forearm wraps around Stiles’ neck, possibly with the intent to squeeze the sheer life out of him or snap the bones there to instantly kill him. “But I can certainly kill your pet.” 

Derek is mad. It’s not surprising. He had explicitly told Stiles just last night that he would go absolutely psycho on anyone who put their hands on Stiles, and now here it is happening right in front of his face, on his turf, in his fight. He is hugely pissed off, coming towards them like he’s going to rip this guy’s fucking head off. 

The arm tightens against Stiles’ neck, so his wind pipe is cut off. He grits his teeth and the werewolves watching this are loving every second of it, cheering and clapping and some even laughing. This must have been what the crowds sounded like at ceremonial burnings at the stake, back in the day. They want to see a witch get their neck snapped so fucking badly, especially one as spectacularly odious as Stiles has proven himself to be. 

Derek is close, almost here to help him, and Stiles cannot breathe. He’s not going to wait around for Derek to try to wrestle him free. 

He zaps, lightning shooting out of his fingers directly into the werewolf’s forearm, and it rattles his entire fucking body. Stiles can hear his bones shaking against one another – the wolf releases him instantly as though Stiles has caught fire. Essentially, Stiles has, for what it feels like to keep touching him when he’s doing that particular spell. 

Once he’s free he coughs, sucking in a great big breath as the crowd quiets in stunned shock. Most of them have never actually seen what witches can do. They thought they were certainly about to see one die right before their eyes, and now that it’s clear Stiles is not that easy to kill, they’re stupefied. 

For his part, Stiles is irritated. He straightens up, ignoring Derek trying to come over and check that he’s okay, and sets his eyes on the wolf who tried to snap his neck. He looks pretty shell shocked, still, the skin on his arm still smoking from where Stiles’ fingers had dinged him, and Stiles grits his teeth.

“Asshole,” he bites out, sweeping his arms aggressively with a crackle of green magic in his eyes. The wolf goes airborne, sailing through the air like he’s sprouted wings, and everyone watches with their jaws dropped. 

He lands in a heap of tattoos and blood some fifteen feet away, and Stiles huffs. Good fucking riddance. 

Sending someone that big flying took a lot of mental energy, so he’s a little winded after, sucking in a deep breath and cracking his knuckles. Derek materializes right next to him, eyeballing him up and down with this insane smile on his face. 

The crowd is stunned. Quiet. They’re freaked out by Stiles, collectively moving backwards and murmuring to one another with big eyes, looking at one another and wondering if they should maybe find some kindling to burn Stiles at the stake with. They’ve never seen anything like that. 

Derek puts his arm around Stiles’ waist. He has blood on his mouth and in his teeth as he grins, and he looks…pleased. Like Stiles really is his little pet that has just performed a parlor trick for everybody, and he’s impressed. 

He leans down and kisses Stiles on the mouth, aggressive and harsh, right there in front of everybody. He tastes like cigarette smoke and blood and Stiles knows he’s getting Derek’s blood in his own mouth, but he doesn’t…care. It feels good. Derek licks into his mouth and cradles his body close up against his own, so Stiles gets his sweat and blood all over his clothes, and everyone is watching them. 

When Derek breaks the kiss, he’s grinning again. All teeth. It’s almost weird to see him smiling that big and that genuine, because he almost never does. He’s gleeful in this moment, for whatever reason, scanning the crowd that’s slowly edging away from the two of them like they want to be as far away from whatever the hell this shit is as they can get. 

“You are scary,” Derek tells him, but he almost purrs it. Like it turns him on. 

Stiles waves his hand. “Whatever. The guy was bothering me.” 

Derek smiles at him again. He wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders possessively, and he leads him out of the circle, into the crowd, where they all separate and eyeball the two of them warily. 

Laura is among them. She’s got her arms crossed and a frown on her face, looking at them like she is not nearly as impressed as everyone else seems to be. “You’re not going to get paid for that,” she tells Derek very seriously, but Derek ignores her. When they keep walking past her, she just catches up, sighing. “You didn’t technically win the fight. Stiles did. And he doesn’t count. In fact, using him is considered cheating to them.” 

“I don’t care about the money.” 

Laura grits her teeth. She looks at Stiles as if for backup, but Stiles just blinks at her and shrugs. What the hell is he supposed to do about that? If Derek doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. “Well I hope you two are happy,” she narrows her eyes. Derek rolls his right back at her. “Everyone is effectively scared shitless of you two. A wolf who cannot be killed,” she gestures to Derek, like she’s mad about it, “and a psychotic powerful baby witch that can raise people from the dead. What a pair.” 

“I don’t care what they think.” 

Laura scowls at them. “What the fuck _do_ you care about?” 

Without missing a beat, Derek pulls Stiles closer against his body and smirks. “Stiles.”

Stiles smiles at him and nuzzles a bit closer. It’s the first time Derek has said that out loud, and even though he’s done things in the past that have clearly shown he gives a shit about Stiles, it’s still nice to hear it. 

Laura pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know, I’m happy for you, but you’re both insane.” 

Derek doesn’t seem to care about that, either. “You wanna go?” He asks Stiles, and Stiles nods his head. They turn to go, towards the entrance where other people are already a starting to spill out into the pitch dark night. 

“Just – can you not bring him around to the fights?” She shouts at Derek and Stiles’ retreating backs. “Lydia says he’s bad for business!” 

That makes Stiles snort. He looks over his shoulder at Laura one last time to find her with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at them like she thinks of them as some little irritation in her life more than anything else, and then looks to Derek. He’s still bloodied and sweaty, sans shirt as usual, but Stiles does not mind it. 

“You want to fuck tonight?” Derek asks him, and Stiles shrugs. 

“If you’re nice.”

“That’s not a setting I have in my brain.” 

“For me, maybe it can be.” 

Derek looks at him, meeting his eyes. He has no discernible expression on his face, but he does not deny it. He just says nothing. Stiles smiles at him and Derek looks away, stepping outside the bar with Stiles. 

Lydia is there and she looks annoyed. She moves like she’s going to try and talk to them, probably to reiterate what Laura had said about Stiles being bad for business, and Derek barks, “fuck off,” at her loudly and aggressively, and she freezes. 

Derek’s blue car is parked underneath a big tree in the dirt lot next to the bar, and he guides Stiles to it as he unlocks it with his key pad. Before he gets in he opens up the door and fishes a shirt out of the back seat, pulling it on over his chest and his tattoos, as Stiles gets into the passenger seat. 

Inside, Derek starts the car with a purr. Apropos of nothing, Derek says, “I know you don’t like those fights.” 

Stiles looks away, out the window. Where Lydia is watching them with her arms crossed over her chest. “What?” He feigns ignorance. 

“You act like you’re all tough, but I can tell.” 

He sighs. “Um…yeah. Just – believe it or not, watching you get beat around is not fun for me.” 

“Then you’re already better than my ex girlfriend,” he deadpans. Stiles thinks it’s meant to be a joke. 

“I sorta already was? She killed your family and cursed you.” 

“I was kidding.” 

“Oh, I know. Or, I didn’t know that. You’re not very good at kidding.” 

Derek side eyes him. “I’ll leave the kidding to you, how about that? I meant, not enjoying watching me get beat around makes you not a piece of shit. It’s okay if you don’t want to come watch.” 

Stiles picks a spot on his black jeans and scratches at it sort of mindlessly, just for something to do with his hands. “…maybe you should just stop fighting?” 

Derek gives him a look, slowing to a red light that illuminates both of them eerily. “It’s all I’m good for.” 

“I hate when you say shit like that,” he snaps, angry. Derek blinks. “It’s not true. You know that? All this ‘violence is my life, pain is all I have’ _bullshit_. It’s annoying.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything. He changes gears and cruises forward, silent, hand gripping the wheel. Stiles would expect nothing more and nothing less, but it still annoys the living hell out of him. 

“Surely you’ve made enough money off it by now.” 

“I don’t care about the money,” he repeats. 

“Then why are you –“

“It’s just - it’s what I’m good at, it’s all I’m good at,” he argues back and Stiles stares at him. There is no earthly reason why Derek should want to keep doing those fights if it’s not for the money – and it isn’t for the money. Stiles is certain Derek doesn’t just say he doesn’t care about money. He truly doesn’t. His fancy blue car aside, he does not live lavishly. His house is modest and tiny. He sleeps on a mattress on the floor for Christ’s sake. 

“You think it’s what you deserve,” Stiles decides out loud. Derek says nothing, but Stiles notices his hand tightening on the steering wheel, enough his knuckles go white. “Well. It isn’t, actually. Just so you know.” 

Derek says nothing. Not a word. It’s all the proof Stiles needs to know that he’s right, and Stiles feels no need to keep arguing about it with him any longer. Truth be told, arguing with Derek is like having a fight with a brick fucking wall. He plants his feet, digs his heels in, is stubborn as a god damn mule, and that is too bad, really, because Stiles is that way too.

Stiles imagines if they keep doing this, their arguments will be insanity. Just absolute chaos. 

They pull onto the main road where Stiles’ apartment is, and immediately, Stiles knows something is wrong. He sits up straight and he frowns. There’s smoke in the air, and a lot of it, and Derek notices it, too. The smell. Fire. Smoke. He must be intimately familiar with it. Stiles takes his seatbelt off and he cranes his neck, trying to see what’s going on – no emergency vehicles yet because wherever this fire is, it must’ve just gone up. There’s sirens distantly, across town, but not close enough yet to make a difference. 

Stiles frowns. He leans forward and presses himself against the windshield, and all at once. He knows. Sometimes he just knows things, like his magic can see things he can’t, like it knows all things and only sometimes decides to let Stiles know, too. 

“It’s my place,” he says out loud, voice low. Derek turns to look at him. 

“What?”

They’re close enough now, it’s obvious. There’s smoke billowing up, flames spilling out of a broken front window, candles spilling out onto the sidewalk, candles Stiles spent hours and hours of his time painstakingly crafting. Stiles’ palm reading sign is still illuminated in the window, but it’s flickering, smoke consuming it, flames licking against the wires. 

“Jesus Christ,” Derek shouts, speeding up to get closer, as Stiles frantically unlocks the passenger side door and literally leaps out of it before the car has even come to a full stop. Derek shouts his name and Stiles ignores it, staggering onto his feet and battling the impact of his body flinging itself out of the moving car.

Derek slams on the brakes with a squeak, but Stiles is running. He sprints to the sidewalk and he looks up, the flames, the smoke, and it’s too late. He knows it’s too late. He knows his books have all gone up and they’re not salvageable, the shop he spent all of his insurance money on is toast, done, over, his bed, his clothes, all of it. It’s too late. 

All the same, he’s moving on adrenaline. Derek’s presence is background noise, his voice muted and distant. Stiles walks up to the fire hydrant closest to the blaze and he breaks the fucking thing in half with a burst of green energy. He sends it flying, so water comes shooting out of it like a fountain, fast and aggressive. 

He catches it. Balls as much of it up in the air as he can with his hands, while Derek watches it with his jaw dropped, frozen still. There’s a giant water ball forming above his head and Stiles is controlling it, of course he’s frozen. How could he possibly help? 

Stiles uses the last bit of his power to send the mountain of water straight at his apartment, and the impact is like a wave in the ocean. It crashes, loud and fast, water flying everywhere, smoke everywhere – it does the trick. He soaked it from top to bottom, extinguished the fire, made it impossible for any flickering embers left to catch anything else alight. 

That was a lot. It knocks him over and he lands on his hands and knees. The rough concrete of the sidewalk skins his palms but he doesn’t care – he looks up. 

It’s all ruined. His entire life. 

Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ back. “Hey. Are you – whoa.” 

Stiles looks at him. He knows his eyes must be all pupil, completely black, his fingers still crackling with tiny green spasms of magic. Stiles tastes blood. 

He runs his hand over his mouth and discovers he’s given himself a nose bleed. He looks at the blood in his palm and he frowns at it. 

“My house,” he says, pointlessly. Derek stands up to his full height and takes Stiles with him, holding him by his waist, supporting his weight like it’s nothing. Stiles is light headed and weak and he can’t really walk. Behind them, the hydrant is still leaking water, sputtering, the entire street flooded with the stuff, as Derek helps Stiles get closer to his place to assess the damage. 

His palm reading sign still flickers in the window, red lights flashing across their skin. But everything else is destroyed. The window is broken open which means it was certainly arson, and someone certainly did this on purpose – a flaming brick maybe, or a rock, or a Molotov cocktail. It doesn’t necessarily matter how. The stairs going up to his apartment are caved in on themselves, burnt up husks. 

Stiles’ books are toast. Some of them date back centuries, many of them were his mothers, his last connection to her as a spirit and an entity in his life, and he… can’t think about that. It’s too painful. He’s homeless now, certainly, and that should be his main concern, not his silly little magic books. Not his stupid fucking books. They were just his entire life, that’s all.

“Stiles,” Derek says, pointing his finger at the front door. 

Stiles looks. And he sighs. 

There’s a symbol painted there that was not there before. It’s been done in bright red spray paint, meant to reflect blood Stiles is certain, and Stiles is familiar with it. He’s seen it before.

When they came for his mother and hung her from the tree in his backyard, they prefaced it by spray painting that exact symbol on their front door. 

“These are the people who burned my house down,” Derek says, and that is something Stiles had not expected. “They – she –“ he seems at a loss for words, like maybe this is all too much for him; and Stiles knows the feeling. His entire life just went up and flames and he’s discovered witch hunters, perhaps the same ones that killed Stiles’ mother, the same ones who killed Derek’s entire family, want to kill him. 

Stiles cries. He moves away from Derek and away from his apartment and the symbol on the door meant to represent death, and presses his hands to his eyes, heaving in great big breaths. Sirens approach, tires screeching, fire trucks moving through the sea of water Stiles dumped onto his apartment, and he doesn’t care. 

“Why is she doing this to me?” Derek asks listlessly behind him. He thinks this is about him. Maybe it is. Stiles did not know witch hunters and werewolf hunters were one and the same, and now here they are. Derek thinks that they just want to get back at him some more. Stiles isn’t so sure. 

He’s done a lot to deserve being hung from a tree, he reckons. More than enough as far as they may be concerned.


	5. Night of the Living Dead

Stiles wakes up to Derek shaking his shoulder. His eyes blink across Derek’s living room floor, and he is confused to be seeing it instead of his own room, his tapestries, his books. He sees Derek’s bookshelves and his television and his couch and his coffee table. Stiles is familiar with all of these things because he’s been here before. But he can’t, at first, remember why he’s looking at them and not his own dark bedroom back at home. 

It comes back to him slowly. The fight, the fire, his palm reading sign glowing and blinking in the haze of smoke and flames. He remembers having Derek help him up over the charred remains of the staircase up to his proper apartment to see what he could salvage out of the smoky remains, and finding almost nothing. His dresser, all his clothes, his candles, ruined, gone. His bed, his laptop, his tapestries. 

And his bookcases. They were collapsed and covered in glowing embers, the books themselves turned to ash that whispered at him as he stood over their remains like standing over a graveyard. He pulled a handful out, gathering them up in his arms even as they were still hot to the touch, and he managed to salvage some of his rocks and crystals. But the rest is gone. All he had to his name in the world, up in smoke. 

He sits up. 

Derek has a plate with food on it, and he thrusts it at Stiles almost aggressively. “I made you an omelette.” So, he did. It’s a well done one, at that, perfectly folded and immaculate looking on a weathered old yellow plate that Derek might have picked up from a second hand store. Derek himself is undressed, in just his underwear, and he doesn’t look very happy. Stiles likely doesn’t look very happy, either. 

“Thank you.” 

He takes the plate and then sets it down in his lap, staring at it. Beside him, Derek hunkers down on the bed and grabs his own plate with a similar breakfast on it, and he eats it with all the grace of an actual wolf, shoveling each bite in like a mad man. Stiles observes his omelette some more and appreciates the work that was put into it. It’s all yellow and soft. Hesitantly, he picks up his fork and cuts into it, taking a bite. 

It’s ham and cheese. He eats, another bite, one after the other, and he doesn’t notice that he’s crying until one of his tears drips onto the plate below him. It’s more automatic than it is anything else – the pain inside of him is all encompassing and his body’s reaction to it is to try and force it out via his tear ducts. He barely feels anything as he eats, and cries, and eats. 

Derek seems at a loss for what to do or say. Last night, he had just followed Stiles around and had obliged when Stiles thumped what books he could salvage into his arms – he made no comments about the books talking or, in that case, yelling and screaming out curses and misery. He didn’t complain about the smoke making his eyes water or the sight of a burned out shell of a place reminding him of another burned out shell he has been trying for years to forget. He didn’t say much of anything. Just a gruff insistence that Stiles come stay with him. 

It’s entirely possible not many people have cried in front of Derek Hale before. Derek is quiet and respectful of Stiles’ grief, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, and Stiles does not blame him. 

Stiles finishes his food and then sets his dirty plate onto the floor, wiping his face. He presses his palms to his eyes. This cannot be happening. Stiles has said that before. When he found his mother’s body in the tree in his backyard, he said it. When his father got shot and died right in front of him, he said it. When the undead, evil thing that had his father’s face tried to eat him and Stiles had to kill it himself, he said it. 

He’s not going to say it again. What’s the use? These things keep happening because he’s cursed, his fortune is hell, his life is a hex. He pulls his hands down and he sniffles and he shakes his head. He does not have the time or space to process this grief, any of it, because now he has work to do. 

Without a word, he begins reaching into the back of his neck and pulling out what he has left. A pair of jeans. A t shirt. An old hoody. Underwear. A toothbrush. Some magic chalk. His most prized and sacred spell book, thick and heavy and covered in dust. An old journal his mother kept. A skateboard. Then, nothing else. 

He stares at it all on Derek’s bed, and Derek stares too. This is all he has left. 

Derek clears his throat. “If you have renter’s insurance, at least you’ll get a little something from that.” 

Stiles blinks at him. “What is renter’s insurance?” Stiles watches Derek realize for maybe the six hundredth time since they met that Stiles is completely out of his element. He never had anyone tell him about silly things like renter’s insurance or how to balance a checkbook or how to drive a car. 

Derek averts his eyes and frowns at his empty plate. “I’ll take you to get some new clothes.” 

“I don’t have any money –“ 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

“That’s – I don’t need you to feel bad for –“ 

“It’s not about feeling sorry for you,” he barks, voice loud and angry. “You’re with _me_. I’ll buy you new clothes.” 

He does have the money to spare, after all. There’s nothing he could say to talk Derek out of this gruff and angry gesture, so he won’t. He needs clothes, anyway. At least for a few days. He is feeling very unsure, in this moment, of how long he has left to live. 

Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on top of the left leg, closing his eyes for a moment. He breathes in deep, and he smells werewolf, and Derek, and the lingering essence of smoke that’s clinging to their dirty clothes they tossed aside last night before collapsing into bed together. Stiles had to do a sleep spell on himself as soon as his head hit the pillow, because he knew that otherwise he’d wind up just staring up at the ceiling thinking about everything that he’d lost. Feels like everything he gets his hands on ultimately gets taken away. 

“What do you know about the symbol they put on your door?” Derek asks him, and Stiles opens his eyes.

“What do _you_ know about it?” He asks right back. 

Derek turns to face him on the bed, closer, so their bodies are touching, bare skin to bare skin. “I know she put it on my family’s door the day before she burned it and them to the ground. I didn’t do a ton of research on it after the fact. Believe it or not.” He looks at Stiles a bit critically, almost like he’s trying to see clean through to Stiles’ center. “Sometimes I think you know more than you let on. About these things.” 

The reality is, Stiles doesn’t know any more about that symbol than Derek does. They know the same things – that it has preceded events in their lives that have changed them forever, for the worse, and it has left them in the shipwreck, struggling for purchase on debris. 

But Derek is almost right. Stiles knows some things that he keeps to himself. Sometimes, he even keeps things _from_ himself. To know is sometimes worse. 

With a deep sigh, he cocks his head in the direction of the pile of things he pulled out from his neck, sitting strewn out on the bed by their feet. Derek looks, but all he sees are clothes and a couple of old books. 

Stiles gets his hands on the leather bound journal that is the last thing he has left of his mother, and cradles it for a moment. He hesitates. 

He hasn’t opened this thing in years. He finds it very traumatic and painful every time he does. The gravity of this situation outweighs any trepidation he has it’s true, but it still takes him a moment to undo the leather cords with his fingers, to slowly open the front cover, met with an exhalation of breath. 

Derek freezes. He heard it, too. He does not like this spooky bullshit, he’s told Stiles a thousand times before, and now is not any sort of exception. Stiles flips through a couple of pages as the breathing continues, harsh and choppy, dusty from disuse, and then a familiar voice comes calling out from inside of it, sounding almost the way it would through a phone line. 

“Stiles?” It asks him, and Stiles grits his teeth, while Derek literally puts his hand over his mouth. “Why are you with Derek Hale?” 

“Oh, fuck that,” Derek says, and Stiles shakes his head at him and puts his hand on Derek’s arm to calm him down. “Is that – what is that, her disembodied fucking spirit trapped in a book?” 

“It’s her memory,” he corrects, pointing to the pages filled to the brim with her scribbles and drawings and old spells. They are weathered and crinkled as he turns them. “She only knows what she knew when she was alive. I don’t know why she knows you or your name – or why the books at my apartment did, either.” 

Derek has got big eyes. He looks at the book and he frowns and he does not like it, but he doesn’t object. 

“…because he’s been in my dreams before,” she explains, and that gives Stiles some pause. Typically, or in the past when he’d go to her journal seeking answers, she only really gives answers in riddles. But there’s nothing to riddle out of that. It just … is. Stiles’ mother has had dreams of Derek Hale – but why? When she was alive, Derek was a kid. The fire hadn’t even happened yet. There was nothing notable or special about him, back then. 

Unless she knew something that Stiles and Derek couldn’t possibly have known, then. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, “is there a point to this? Or are you just trying to freak the hell out of me?” 

Stiles swallows and he starts turning through the pages faster, faster, towards the very end of it, until he comes to a page that has the same symbol both of them recognize. It’s done in black ink, thick, like she had drawn over the lines again, and again, so harshly it nearly went clean through the paper. 

They both stare at it for a moment. It looks more menacing here than it had on the front door of Stiles’ burning apartment. 

“It means unclean,” the book, Stiles’ mother speaks, and Stiles swallows a lump in his throat. “Or impure. Dark magic, werewolves, vampires – these are all things the Argents consider to be unclean, and when they leave this symbol on your door, it means they’ve decided to do a cleansing.” 

“A cleansing,” Stiles repeats, and when he looks up, he immediately meets Derek’s eyes. “When they burned your house down…” 

“Now your apartment. But you weren’t in it,” he rubs his jaw. “Mistake?” 

Stiles thinks not. There was a reason that they burned Stiles’ store and apartment to the ground without him inside of it to die in the blaze – they didn’t want him to die in the blaze. They want him to die, that’s perfectly evident. But in the right way. At the right time. Stiles presses his lips down in a grim line and he feels certain that they will come for him, certain that it will be bad, certain that he will wind up either burning at the stake or hanging from a tree somewhere. 

Derek seems to be thinking the exact same thing. “I’m smarter this time,” he says, apropos of nothing. “I’m not a kid, anymore. I won’t let them kill you.” 

Stiles closes his mother’s notebook. She hadn’t written anything else about the symbol or the Argents or what any of it means – maybe she didn’t have the time, before they came and killed her in Stiles’ childhood backyard. Maybe there was nothing else to say except exactly what she said; that the Argents kill at will, anything they deem to be unclean. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. After all, she was powerful, more powerful than Stiles, and she couldn’t stop them. 

Stiles shudders to think of what they had to do to restrain her, to make her powerless, so they could hang her. They will do the same to Stiles, no doubt about it. 

He ties the leather cords tight with a bow and sets it aside. “I have a feeling I will die,” he says out loud, and Derek gives him a look. 

“Is this more mumbo jumbo?” 

“It’s intrinsic,” he holds his hand out, palm up, to Derek, for him to see. But all Derek sees are choppy lines and he doesn’t know how to make sense of them, not like Stiles does. “It’s my fortune.” 

“Your hand says the Argents are going to kill you,” he says this deadpan, like it’s ridiculous to him. 

Stiles shrugs. “It says I will suffer.” 

“And you have.” 

It doesn’t feel over. It does not feel over. There is perhaps nothing Stiles could say to convince Derek to not believe he can pull some white knight routine out of his ass to stop the Argents from killing Stiles whenever they feel it’s the right time to do so. After all, Derek has failed before, in this exact scenario, like history repeating itself, and the idea of failing a second time is completely abhorrent to him. So much so that his mind rejects it, fully. He cannot allow himself to think that they will take everything from him, and then Stiles, too.

Not Stiles, too. 

Stiles drops it. He has no interest in having the argument with Derek, because he doesn’t want Derek to have to face the reality of having everything ripped out of his hands for a second time in his life. In the back of his mind he can feel the reaper staring at him, the presence of a raven blinking at him from a window somewhere in Derek’s house. Omens. Mumbo jumbo, indeed. 

“Let’s take a shower,” he suggests, and Derek frowns at him. When Stiles goes to move, up out of the bed, Derek reaches out and grips him in a vice, by the arm, so Stiles couldn’t get up if he wanted to. 

“They will have to kill me to get to you,” he says, deathly serious. “And I can’t die.” 

Stiles smiles thinly at him. The truth is, he’s been resigned to his impending death since the day he walked out and found his mother hanging in the wind. He always figured he’d wind up dead, by the hands of people who hate what he is, who are afraid of him. In his mind, there’s never really been a way out of it. 

He’s going to hell. There’s nothing Derek can do to stop it. Might as well have a good few days before he goes. 

He reaches out and dares to touch Derek on the face – with his palm, the same one that has all the markings of death all over it, the one thing Derek’s money cannot buy. It’s the most gentle they’ve ever been with one another. “You’re brave.” 

Derek shakes his head. “I’m psychotic. There’s a difference.” 

In the shower, Stiles half expects Derek to shove him up against the wall and fuck him stupid as he has been known to do in the past – but he doesn’t. They get clean and don’t say very much to one another at first, just going through the motions of soaping up and scrubbing the smell of smoke out of their skin. The water turns pink from dried blood that Derek still had all over his body, but Stiles barely even blinks at it, watching it circle the drain and then disappear. 

Being with Derek Hale sort of means that he has learned to get used to things like blood and gore. 

Derek finally breaks the silence when he says, “you’ll have to get more tattoos. I can’t believe you only have one.” 

This is a nonsense statement to Stiles, who actually snorts and rolls his eyes, rinsing the last of Derek’s soap out of his hair. “Tattoos don’t interest me like they do you.” 

“They have meaning.” 

“Nothing means very much to me, anymore.” 

“I felt the same way. Then I started getting them and couldn’t stop.” He holds his arms out so Stiles can see more of them, covering his skin like armor, like a second layer of himself. “Turns out, I cared about more than I’d realized.” 

It’s an oddly existential statement for Derek to make. He doesn’t necessarily strike Stiles as someone who would sit around pondering the importance of simple objects like trees or owls or lemons, but he has clearly done exactly that. Like he was scrabbling for things to make life tolerable, things to care about or even love. 

Lemons, trees, the moon, even Pac Man. These are things Derek has loved that cannot be taken away. Stiles never saw it that way before. 

“I’d like to get a pentagram,” he decides out loud, turning away to face the tiled wall of Derek’s shower. “Maybe a match.” 

“A match.” 

“Apparently, fire is a theme of my life.” 

Derek has nothing to say to that. He shuts the water off and they get dry together, and then dress together in comfortable silence. When they’re all ready to go, Stiles’ hair still a bit of a damp mop on top of his head, Derek pulls him in a bit close and does one of those werewolf gestures that Stiles doesn’t quite understand; the tip of his nose, pressed against Stiles’ neck. 

It feels intimate. More intimate than fucking or kissing, by a landslide. He says, “you smell like me.” 

Stiles swallows. “Because I used your shampoo.” 

All the same, it’s a big deal to Derek, who sniffs him some more like it pleases him immensely to smell himself on Stiles’ skin. Stiles won’t lie. It makes him feel important and special and like no one has ever known him the way that Derek has begun to. 

In the car, Derek puts on sunglasses and frowns at the sunlight beaming down on the two of them. It is almost bizarre to be here in broad daylight on a sunny day with Derek, because Stiles really has never seen him in such bright light before. Both Stiles and Derek are creatures of the night, or at least of overcast afternoons. Sunlight doesn’t really suit either of them. 

Stiles knows he looks disturbingly pale and inhumanly sunken in on himself, his eyes darker and the circles underneath them much more pronounced, in such harsh lighting. And Derek – he looks fucking stupid. In his dark clothes and his tattoos and his sunglasses. Stupidly attractive, yes, but also just…silly. Like seeing a teacher outside of school. 

“Hey,” Stiles clears his throat and starts, as Derek pulls onto the highway. “Uh – last night at the fight you sort of spit your blood at my feet. That’s a - that’s a gesture.” 

Derek is quiet. Then he says, “it was.” 

Silence. Oh, how Stiles hates to have to pull Derek’s fucking teeth to get answers out of him. “Well, what’s it mean?” 

If Derek weren’t wearing sunglasses then Stiles would probably be able to see him avoiding Stiles’ direct eye contact a lot better. He keeps his face turned to the road, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick. 

“You know, we’ve had sex and kissed and saved each other’s lives and I’ve cried in front of you,” he counts all this off on his fingers like bullet points. “I think we are past the point of withholding information from one another.” 

Derek frowns. For a second, Stiles thinks he will continue to be tight lipped and sullen, which would be his character – but he surprises Stiles by actually speaking. Telling the truth, at that. “It’s an offering,” he says, voice low. Stiles is familiar with offerings; like sacrificing raccoons up to those things that guard the channels of the underworld, for example. But he does not think that that is the type of offering Derek is referring to. “If we were – if this were a half normal situation - I’d give you gifts.” 

“Gifts.” 

“My blood is one,” he says, slow. “A dead deer would be another.” 

That’s what makes it all click in Stiles’ brain. His knowledge of werewolf lore is limited only to what his mother told him and what his spooky old witch books wrote about, and none of it was particularly kind, but they did mention something about dead deer, or any number of woodland creatures. A dead buck would be the most impressive, followed maybe by things slightly more difficult to find and track, like a fox or a badger. 

It’s werewolf mating nonsense. 

“Oh,” Stiles raises his eyebrows. It surprises him and takes him off guard. “Well…” 

“It’s supposed to be –“ he grits his teeth, as though he is uncomfortable using a word like this one but simply has no other choice, “…romantic.” 

It was not romantic. Derek spit a wad of his own blood onto the floor at Stiles’ feet and it did nothing but make Stiles flinch and frown a bit, at the time, because he doesn’t get shit like that. In his world, witches don’t really do things like court one another. There’s no ritualistic gestures or sacrifices of animals or anything of the sort. 

It doesn’t really matter, is the thing. The power behind a gesture isn’t how it’s received but what is put behind it. Derek meant it to be romantic, in his own way, so Stiles accepts that for what it is. 

“It was nice,” he decides out loud, shrugging. What else is he supposed to say? “It was very, uh, masculine.” 

“You like stuff like that?” There’s a needling edge to his voice. He’s prying for information, likely to file away for later use. 

“Masculine stuff? Well, yeah. I have daddy issues.” 

Derek actually laughs at that, which Stiles counts as a personal victory. 

Stiles rubs the back of his head, his hair, his neck. He squints at the sunlight through Derek’s tinted windows and sighs.“I like you. You don’t need to give me blood and dead animals.” 

“It’s how we operate.” 

Stiles is going to wake up one morning to find a dead fucking animal in bed with him, all blood and fur and this that and the other thing, and he better just get used to the idea. Derek likely could not stop himself from hunting animals for Stiles’ benefit even if he tried. It’s just how he is. Stiles should accept it, the way Derek has slowly embraced all of Stiles’ creepy little quirks, bit by bit. Stiles can accept Derek’s too. 

They are, after all, all each other has left in this world. It makes what they’re doing feel momentous. And at the same time, it makes Stiles abysmally sad, because his palm tells him death is close, close, close, and Derek thinks he can stop it. 

They are bizarre and unwelcome at the mall. 

There’s so many normal human people here it sets Stiles on edge to see them all, to be surrounded by them, and he knows Derek doesn’t particularly like it either, because he has his hands balled into fists at his sides, and he’s stiff. As they walk, people stare at them or pointedly avoid looking at them at all, moving out of their way quickly. They can tell without needing to ask that these two are supernatural, and as such, are dangerous and not to be trusted. 

They walk by a beauty store at one point, all pink and brightly colored with pop music blaring out at them, and Stiles wishes he could convince Derek to stop and pose for a picture in front of it. He looks insane beside so much color and light and pep, like a gargoyle that’s been dressed up for Valentine’s Day. 

Stiles goes to the first store he sees that has men’s clothing, a reluctant Derek in tow, and he starts poking through the racks, while the sales girl nervously eyeballs them from behind the counter. 

“Just a couple shirts and pants, that’s all I need,” he says, mostly to himself. He pulls out a shirt that has some logo for a brand he doesn’t know or care about and shrugs. It’s black. It’ll do. 

“You need more than that,” Derek argues. “Get a bunch.” 

Stiles does as he’s asked. He throws every black shirt he can find over his arm, and then every pair of blacks jeans in his size, and a black and white plaid overshirt for good measure. It’s a decent enough new wardrobe, and once he gets a pack of socks and some new underwear, he’s all set. It took him less than fifteen minutes, and when he sets it all down on the counter for the girl to scan, she appraises both of them sort of oddly. 

She scans one shirt with a boop, and chews her bubblegum. “You guys are werewolves?” She doesn’t say it like it makes her angry or she’s disgusted by it – she is simply curious. “We don’t get many of those.” 

“He’s a werewolf,” Stiles points his thumb at Derek, silent and still right beside him. More of a shadow than anything else. 

She looks at him. Scans Stiles’ pants and dumps them into a plastic bag after folding them neatly on the counter. “You look different.” 

“I’m a witch.” 

That gives her some pause. She pops her gum and sets Stiles’ full bags on top of the counter for him to take. “No way.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows as if to say _yes way_ , and her eyes go big. 

“Are you like, a thousand years old?” 

Stiles laughs, scrunching his nose up. It’s been a long time since any interaction with a human has made him feel anything less than terrible, so he doesn’t mind this. “Not quite. What’s the total?” 

She tells him, and Derek steps forward. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a wad of crumpled up hundred dollar bills, licking his finger as he sifts through them until coming up with the appropriate amount, handing it off to her without a single word. She slowly takes it from him, apparently more wary of him than of Stiles, and for good reason – he is scary. He’s huge, tattooed, and mean. Of course he’s scary. 

She gives Derek his change back and pops her gum one last time. “Have a nice day,” she says, and Stiles smirks at her, taking his bags and Derek and heading out into the halls of the mall. 

They walk in tandem and silence, dodging strange looks and the occasional mother guiding her children as far from them as she can get them. Derek nudges Stiles’ body with his own a couple of times, and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d think it was an accident. It’s not. It’s Derek’s bizarre way of showing affection, like how a normal boyfriend would hold his hand or put his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles will take it. 

“Can you really live to be a thousand?” He asks at the front doors, pushing one open and gesturing for Stiles to go ahead of him. 

Stiles smiles and passes, shaking his head. “Not actually. It’s just a slower aging process. Once I get about your age it just sort of…keeps me young longer, let’s say. You’re familiar. Isn’t it the same with wolves?” 

They descend the concrete steps, out into the rows of cars glistening in the sunshine. “In a way.” 

“Dog years,” Stiles jokes. 

“If it were dog years, wouldn’t that mean I’d actually be sixty right now?” 

“Reverse dog years, then. You’re five.” 

“All right, I’m five.” 

They go back to Derek’s house, where Stiles immediately settles onto the couch pulling his new clothes out and removing all the tags, laying them all out and observing them. This is actually more clothes than he had before, which is a depressing thought, but he shakes it off and sets to work on folding them. He figures he’ll just keep them in a neat pile on the floor by the bed, but Derek surprises him by saying, “I made space for you in the closet.” 

“Oh,” he blinks. 

Then, Derek moves to one of his book shelves, one of the _many_ bookshelves, and he points to a vacant shelf. “I made space for your books.” 

“Oh,” he repeats again. There’s just enough room there for Stiles’ pile of crystals and what few books he managed to salvage from the fire. “Thank you.” 

It’s an insanely thoughtful gesture, for Derek. It means more to Stiles than the wad of blood at his feet or any dead deer Derek could ever bring him. It’s like Derek is asking Stiles to move in here and stay forever, in his own cryptic backwards halfassed type of a way. 

Stiles had figured that he would stay here for a while and then he’d either get burned alive or have to figure something else out, if it came to that. Apparently, Derek has already decided Stiles fully lives here, now. 

He stands with his clothes hanging off his arm and goes to the closet door by the television, opens it, and then stops. He stares for a moment, eyes big in his head, and then he shuts it, quickly. “Uh.” 

“There’s hangers at the end.” 

That’s seriously what Derek thinks Stiles is stupefied by? Hangers? Fucking _hangers_? 

He slowly opens the door again and peers inside, and there it is again. The money. And more money. Everywhere, money. Cash. Hundreds, fifties, twenties, all of it strewn around on the floor haphazardly, like Derek just dumps it all in there after a fight and closes the door and doesn’t think about it again. There are clothes, yes, and hangers, yes, but mostly money. 

“Derek. This is…”

Derek comes up behind him and looks, no discernible expression on his face. “What the hell else am I supposed to do with it?” 

“Take it to the bank.” 

“Uh, where humans will steal it from me?” He snorts, rolling his eyes like the idea is absolutely ludicrous to him. “No thanks. I don’t trust them.” 

Which is fair, to a point. And there isn’t exactly a National First Bank of Werewolves that Stiles is aware of, but this is just…irresponsible. “You don’t even lock your front door,” he reminds Derek a bit hotly, gesturing wildly to the door in question. “Anyone could break in here and rob you, Derek!” 

“Not likely. What are they gonna do?” He smirks. “Kill me?” 

“Or just come in when you’re not around and steal all your money.” 

“At their own peril.” 

This is a useless conversation. Stiles sees that, now. Derek is of the opinion everyone is too afraid of him to ever try and rob his money from him, nevermind how easy it would be to do it. It’s the kind of werewolf brained nonsense that Stiles simply doesn’t have time for, so even though this massive pile of money is technically his problem now, he just sighs and starts hanging his clothes up, article by article. 

Derek leans against the wall and watches him work – he seems amused. As if there’s anything funny about his pile of money or Stiles hanging his clothes up. “You’re worried about it.” 

“It’s a million dollars in cash just out in the open, so, uh, yeah,” he slaps a hanger with a black t shirt onto the rod angrily. 

“You’re annoyed.” 

“It’s just irresponsible,” he snaps. “You know, I get you can’t be killed, but people can still very much cause you harm. Remember the wolfsbane knife? That whole fiasco? What if someone came in and did that to you? Then all your money would be gone!” 

“I don’t care about the money,” he shrugs, and he means it. It’s why it’s just been shoved haphazardly onto a closet floor and then forgotten about, no lock on the door, no nothing to guard it or keep it safe. The money means nothing to him. It seems like more of an annoyance than anything else, which boggles Stiles’ mind. 

“You could take this money and go away somewhere,” he gestures to it, raising his eyebrows. “Away from this shithole! That doesn’t interest you?”

He shrugs, again, languid and careless. “This is my home. It’s where my family is buried. You could’ve taken your insurance money and ran away, too, but you didn’t.” 

He’s right. Stiles very well could’ve taken that money and gotten out of here a long time ago, been gone like he never even existed here, but he didn’t. He chose to make his roots in this place because it’s the only place he’s ever known. 

It’s where his trauma lives. All of it. But his trauma is really all he has left, so he clings to it. Just the same as Derek. 

“You told me when we met I’d be better off running away from here,” he says, voice low, and Derek nods – he remembers. 

“That was when you had no one. Now, you have me.” 

Stiles closes the closet door so he won’t have to look at the pile of money anymore, and he shakes his head, but he considers that. Other people aren’t band-aids that you can put on problems to make those problems magically go away. Whether they have each other now or not, Derek’s family is still dead and Stiles’ parents are still dead and they are both stuck with all the shitty things they have done. 

But Derek is right about one thing. Having someone makes everything easier. Someone has his back. Someone will try and protect him. Someone will help him find food and shelter when his fucking house and source of income gets burned to the ground by witch hunters. If it weren’t for Derek, Stiles would be wandering the streets right now, hunting for spare change to buy a burrito. 

Derek’s not a band-aid. He has, however, proven himself to be someone Stiles can rely on. Money can’t buy that. And it’s more important than money, so maybe Derek is right. Money does not matter. 

Only poor people say that shit, though. Well, poor people and Derek Hale. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek tells him. “Even if she burns my house down too with all the money in it, I’ll just go make more.” 

Stiles releases a long breath and shakes his head. Derek is so fucking insane. He should probably hurry up and get used to it. 

“The only thing I really give a shit about losing is you,” he moves closer, does that thing with his nose against Stiles’ neck again. He breathes in and Stiles shudders, because if feels good and it feels special and close. “And they’ll have to kill me, first.” 

For all Stiles knows, this woman _can_ kill Derek. She put the curse on him, after all. She would know how to break it. 

Derek takes Stiles by his upper arms and looks at him for a moment. They stare at one another, eye to eye, toe to toe, almost touching noses they are so close to one another. “You want to fuck?” 

“Do you ever not?”

Derek’s lips quirk up. Not a smile, not quite, but almost. “I realize you’ve got some trauma to sift through. It’s okay if you’re not in the mood. Sex and being sad don’t mix.”

To be frank, Stiles has already sifted through the trauma. Although there is a lot of wreckage, he’s done he’s wading through it already. There’s not a lot to say. There’s even less to linger on. So, all the money he got from his family dying is in the shitter now because witch hunters want him dead, and he lost nearly all of his sacred spell books that have been passed down generation to generation. It’s all spilled milk. Stiles didn’t get where he is now because he doesn’t have the ability to roll with the punches, after all. 

Stiles figures sex is the best way to ignore reality, anyway. Especially sex with Derek Hale, who fucks like his very life depends on it. “So long as you’re gentle,” Stiles teases, raising a single eyebrow. 

“Can’t do that,” he shakes his head. “You don’t like it that way, anyway.” 

He is not wrong.

** 

Stiles wakes up in Derek’s bed again, and he’s not confused this time.

His eyes open and he finds himself staring across the living room in the mid-afternoon light, looking right at Derek’s closet door. Behind it, there is more money than Stiles could shake a stick at, and it’s funny to know that, considering it’s just a humble door in an even more humble little house. 

They had stayed up very late the night before. They fucked and it was just as rough as last time, but a little less insane – there are no broken tables or holes in the wall to speak of, but Stiles has got bruising on his thighs and on his arms from Derek’s hands, Derek’s mouth, his teeth. Parts of his body ache and hurt but he doesn’t mind it, because of how the aches and hurts got there in the first place. 

Beside him, Derek is fast asleep, still. He’s snoring and drooling on his pillow, his arm carelessly swung across Stiles’ middle, fingers laid out on Stiles’ stomach, dead to the world. Stiles removes the arm gently and sits up, pushing the covers off and swinging his legs over to rest on the cold hardwood floor underfoot. 

He grabs at his discarded shirt and pulls it up over his head. Then, a new pair of underwear, which he stands up to fit onto his hips, before stretching and cracking his back a bit. Derek’s bed is comfortable enough, but it is still simply a mattress on the floor, and maybe that’s good enough for Derek’s constantly-healing werewolf body, but Stiles’ human body needs something with a little bit more back support. 

After brushing his teeth and pissing in Derek’s bathroom, he comes back into the living room and just stands there for a second. Derek is still asleep. He figures he could get back into bed with him, but he’s wide awake and it’s already one o’clock in the afternoon, so he hovers. 

Then, he gets an idea. 

He digs around in what’s left of his things before coming up with an old box of chalk, flipping through one of his remaining books to find the spell he’s thinking of. Once he finds it, he walks over to Derek’s closet and sets the book up on the ground next to him for reference, cocking his head to the side and observing the symbols before using the chalk to draw them into the doorframe carefully. 

He gets halfway done, swooping ancient symbols in chalk on Derek’s closet door, before Derek comes up behind him. It’s creepy how silent his footsteps can be – like a predator in a nature documentary. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ body quickly, dipping his hands low on Stiles’ hips, tugging Stiles’ back up against his chest, pressing his lips to Stiles’ neck. “What are you doing?” He asks this with his mouth on Stiles’ skin. 

Stiles smirks. “Magic, obviously.”

Derek licks his neck, sucks a mark, digs his fingers in hard to some bruises he left on Stiles last night. Stiles moans because he can’t help it, because it hurts and feels good like everything that Derek does tends to. “What kind?”

“It’s a protection spell,” he grabs Derek’s wrists and pulls his hands off, turning so they’re facing one another. Derek is still naked, because of course he is, and he’s got morning wood, because of course he does, but Stiles ignores all of that, focuses on his face. “I need a drop of your blood.”

Derek doesn’t even hesitate. Two months ago he would’ve called Stiles a satanic freak for asking something like that of him, but today, he simply sprouts claws out of his hands and uses one to slice his palm wide open. He offers it out to Stiles as it bleeds profusely and heavily, and Stiles takes it by the wrist, pressing it into the wood of the door. The symbols light up green and neon for a moment, just a quick second, and then they disappear altogether like they were never there to begin with. 

“There,” he holds onto Derek’s wrist, even though he doesn’t really need it anymore, “now no one but you can open that closet.”

“What about you?”

“I did the spell. So, me too.”

“Why are you so concerned about that money?” He raises his eyebrows, while Stiles busies himself studying Derek’s wound – it’s already stitching itself back together, the healing process even quicker than Stiles had imagined it would be. 

“Because you earned it,” he says with a shrug. 

Derek pulls Stiles in close, again. “You worry about me?” This is whispered against Stiles’ neck, a ticklish part, and it makes him shiver. 

Like always, Stiles throws that question right back into Derek’s face. “Do you worry about _me_?” 

“Not so much,” he slides his hands up and down Stiles’ chest and stomach, slipping his fingers into the band of his underwear. “See, I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you.” He dips his hand in and just barely grazes Stiles’ blooming erection. Stiles jerks into the touch and bites his lip. “I don’t need to worry about you.”

Stiles has bruises all over him, is still sore from the night before, can honestly say that he’s unsure he can have sex with Derek again without tearing something down there – but the sickest part of it all is that he wants to, regardless. Derek wraps his hand fully around his cock and Stiles drops the chalk onto the ground with a clatter around their feet, pushing his body back to rub against Derek’s own hard length. 

Derek pulls the underwear that Stiles had literally just not five minutes ago put on himself down, so they fall around his ankles in a pile. Stiles steps out of them as Derek continues to paw at him, the only sound in the room their shared, harsh breathing. 

Fingers gently prod at Stiles’ entrance, so he makes a noise of surprise. “Are you okay?”

“It’s – I mean,” he laughs, sort of incredulous, “It’s fine. It’s okay.”

“So you want me to?”

“Uh.”

“You don’t?”

“I do,” he nods, fervent. “Just…I’ve never had sex with someone two times in twelve hours.”

“Well, you’ve never been sleeping with a werewolf,” Derek reminds him, gently sliding one finger inside of him to test it out. There is still, grossly and horrifyingly enough but also hot at the same time, lube and Derek’s come in there. He slides in easily and then adds a second finger, making Stiles’ erection jump in his other hand. “I can fuck you as many times as you’d like me to, in a single day.”

“Because you’re perma-horny.” 

“That,” he laughs, more an exhalation of breath as he gently fingers Stiles open again, “and my body works differently.” 

Stiles does not think he’s ever read anywhere that werewolves are constantly horny, always ready, sex machines. He knew, because of the werewolf porn, that they were absolute animals in bed, yes, and he knew that they had a lot of sex. But the biology of it? Like, that they’re literally predisposed to have sex more than human beings? That’s something else. Derek says it so casually, like it’s not that big of a deal, but Stiles is standing here thinking that he may spend his remaining days with Derek having constant bruising and bite marks all over him. 

It’s not that he hates the idea. Really, he doesn’t. It’s that he had no idea what he was getting himself into. 

“C’mon,” Derek starts manhandling him, as is his favorite activity. He drags Stiles back to the bed, pushes him down on top of it, so Stiles is lying on his back blinking up as Derek climbs in between his legs. He takes Stiles by his ankles and opens him up more, pressing as close to him as he can get in this position, with a smile on his face. “I want to fuck you brain dead.”

“That’s –“ Stiles laughs out loud. “Horrible?”

“You know what I mean,” he insists, fondling Stiles’ cock with one hand. With his other, he traces the tips of his fingers along the ink of Stiles’ tattoo on his inner thigh, observing it with a laser focus, like he hasn’t seen it a dozen times by now. “Fire is a theme of your life.”

“What?”

“What you said in the shower yesterday. Fire is a theme,” he taps Stiles’ tattoo with his index finger, “and you got this tattoo. Of a spell that starts fires.”

Stiles blinks at him. This seems very random, considering their positions and the situation that they’re in. “I just like the way it looked,” he had said this exact thing to Derek the first time he asked about it at the bar, because it’s the truth. 

Derek traces over the words, again. It feels good, makes Stiles shiver and want to be touched more, in other places. “Fire is a theme of my life, too.” 

“I know,” he says, softly. 

With that, even though it’s a hell of a way to punctuate foreplay, Derek lines himself up with Stiles’ body. He pushes the head in and it hurts, a bit, is still sore and abused from the night before. Stiles whines and Derek freezes, leaning down to kiss him on the mouth, the neck, the cheek, all over. Wet, open mouthed kisses that leave saliva behind in their wake. 

Once he’s in all the way, it’s better, hurts less. He makes it a good four thrusts in this position, facing one another and looking into each other’s eyes, before he pulls out. Stiles knows instantly it’s because that particular position does not afford him the opportunity to really _fuck him_ the way that Derek likes to, and he doesn’t mind it when Derek flips him over by his hip. Stiles gets himself face down on the bed, inhaling the smell of Derek and also, just a bit, the smell of Stiles mingling in there as well. The smell of them together. 

Derek climbs on top of Stiles, blankets him with his body, chest to back, leaning his weight on his elbows right up by Stiles’ head. Stiles is trapped underneath him, Derek’s full weight on him, his entire body, and he doesn’t mind it. It’s like Derek is a big blanket, or a great big teddy bear, warm and damp-skinned. 

Derek gets inside of him again. He presses his lips to the back of Stiles’ neck and breathes these hot, wet, deep pants right into Stiles’ skin. Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s pillow and turns his head so his face isn’t buried into the mattress – Derek takes this as an invitation to kiss him, which Stiles allows. It’s messy and wet, mingling with Stiles’ open mouthed moaning, but he likes it. 

“Am I hurting you?” Derek asks him in a whisper, lips right against Stiles’ ear.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, it’s good, it’s good.”

With that out of the way, Derek keeps going, and harder. It’s hard enough that Stiles is getting ground deep into the bed with every push, his cock trapped between the mattress and his own skin, but he doesn’t mind it. He likes it. It’s a pleasure/pain he’s beginning to really get off on, thanks to Derek. Derek kisses his face some more, bears down over him and seems to be getting close to finishing. 

He grunts and goes harder, faster, panting directly into Stiles’ ear, and then he goes more erratic. It’s odd for him to lose control of himself in bed, because with Stiles he tends to watch his every muscle movement to hold back from seriously hurting him, but he’s losing it right now. He makes an odd whimper, totally out of character for him, and he says, “oh fuck,” like he’s surprised, and the next thing Stiles knows, Derek’s dick is getting…bigger. Inside of him. 

Stiles freezes. “Um,” he says. It’s the weirdest fucking feeling in the world. And it keeps going, and going, even when Stiles starts to think if it gets any bigger it’ll literally tear him open. 

“I can’t stop it,” Derek pants, and then he jerks, a second orgasm, “oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

It’s still getting bigger. “Ow,” he murmurs, as it continues to expand, and expand, and he thinks it’s going to break him in half. “Derek, what the fuck is –“

“I’m sorry,” he whines, literally, _whines_ , like a fucking dog. And, almost like his body has no choice, he grinds the fucking giant dick that’s now inside of Stiles’ body hard. Like, moves his hips in such a way that it goes deeper inside of him, and it hurts. Not terribly, but enough that Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and grunts and tries to pull away – which of course, only makes it worse. “Holy fuck, holy fuck…”

“Derek it’s –“

“I know,” he’s petting Stiles. Seriously. Petting him. A big hand is on Stiles’ head and hair and is patting, patting, gentle yet frantic swipes of his hand, as though to soothe him. “Shhh, fuck, I can’t – I can’t –“ it jerks, again. Another orgasm. Stiles is stupefied.

Has he heard of this before? Sure, he has. Did he think it was an old wives’ tale or just something horny humans told one another because it’s sexy to imagine it? Yes. That’s precisely what he thought. Now here he is, trapped underneath a werewolf, with their knot all the fucking way inside of his body, and all he can really do is lie there and just…take it? 

It doesn’t hurt that badly. It did, at first, because while it may not even be the size of Derek’s fist, it’s still a large foreign object entering his asshole. But now, it’s just…there. In him. Stiles blinks and Derek pets him and kisses his shoulders and comes again, and Stiles is, more than than anything else, surprised. 

“Oh, my God…” Derek seems even more stupefied than Stiles is. Which is saying something. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t…fuck,” he comes, and Stiles feels it. He’s gotta be completely full by now. There’s no more room. “Baby, it’s so…”

_Baby_? Who the fuck –

“Fuck,” he has one more good push, and then it slowly starts to fade. It gets smaller inside of him, while Stiles blinks across the room and feels a bit shocky. Not in a bad way – but more of a surprised, confused, that happened with no warning or explanation type of a way. Derek falls completely silent as the knot loses its shape, disappears, and as soon as it’s small enough for Derek to remove himself from Stiles’ body, he does exactly that. 

Stiles is scared to move for a moment. He has it on good authority that when he flips over, come is going to come spilling out of him like a fire hydrant expelling water. He is positive of this, as a matter of fact. 

But Derek is touching him. He is putting his hands on Stiles’ hips and attempting to move him, gingerly, the way that one might try to move a newborn fawn or something. “I am so fucking sorry,” he bursts out, flipping Stiles over onto his back so that they can look at one another. Yup, there’s come trickling out of him, and it feels weird, but also, because Stiles never actually got to come, it feels good, and he’s still turned on. 

It had been surprising to be knotted, yes. Was it hot? Uh, yeah. Yeah, it was. Especially the sounds Derek was making. 

“That – I don’t – it wasn’t –“ Derek is flustered. Stiles has never ever ever fucking seen Derek be flustered before. He’s red in the face, maybe from the sex or maybe from embarrassment or maybe a bit of both, and he’s avoiding Stiles’ direct eye contact. 

Stiles sits up. More come leaves his body and he could laugh at that, but Derek seems to be having a crisis of some kind, so he schools his face into seriousness. “Um,” he starts. “It’s cool. I’ve read that can just…happen,” he thrusts his hands out and makes a weird hand gesture that not even he has an explanation for. “It’s cool. It’s fine. It was…”

“I’ve never had that happen before,” he says. He is still refusing to look at Stiles directly. He keeps his eyes pointed down at the mattress and Stiles can see the tips of his ears are bright pink. Holy shit. He’s fucking embarrassed.

Which is another emotion Stiles did not think the psychotic unkillable Derek Hale was capable of. 

“I’ve never done that,” he goes on, voice low. “I’ve never knotted…period. Not even…”

“Whoa, not even your own hand or something?” Stiles’ eyebrows go up. He would think that if he were a werewolf with the capability to literally make the base of his dick grow to have, like, a dozen orgasms, he would be doing that to himself all the fucking time. “To be fair, I thought it was porn-fairytale nonsense up until…five minutes ago.”

“It is not.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. This is not a Derek he knows how to speak to or handle. He’s…Christ. Stiles doesn’t know what he is right now. “I thought it was hot.”

Derek finally looks at him. Brief eye contact, and then he quickly looks away again, focusing on Stiles lips. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s gonna be sore, but no rips or anything.” 

Derek goes quiet. He runs his hand through his hair and he palms his forehead, staring blankly down at the bedding some more. He is definitely having some kind of existential moment, and Stiles isn’t sure he can say or do anything in this moment to make him not flip the fuck out, so he just sits with him in quiet, drawing his knees up to his chest and waiting patiently. 

After a minute or so, he speaks again. 

“I have never done that before.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He’s being very careful with his words. One wrong move would perhaps send Derek running away. 

He seems thoughtful and serious, brow furrowed. “I have never trusted anyone enough to let that happen,” he confesses. “I’ve never felt…” safe, is the word that Derek will not use here, but that Stiles gets from context clues alone. “With Kate, sex was like a mindgame. She tried to make it…she tried to force it to come, but I couldn’t…”

Stiles instantaneously knows that Kate is Kate Argent. She was the hunter who tricked Derek into sleeping with her, maybe just so she could get close enough to figure out how to get into the house, how to sneak in and set it on fire. Now, apparently, Stiles wonders if the worst thing that Kate ever did to him was to take his family away or to screw with his head this badly. There are more traumas associated with this hunter than Stiles ever knew, because Derek does not share this information regularly. 

He has perhaps never told anyone this before, not even his sister, not even his werewolf buddies. Stiles is silent and still, listening. 

Derek grits his teeth and shakes his head, like he hates to talk about this, hates to think about it. Cannot fucking stand it. Can’t stand it, can’t stand it, can’t stand it. “It seems wrong,” he says, as though it’s being forced out of him, “…it felt so good.”

“It’s not wrong,” Stiles immediately says, sliding closer to him on the bed. He completely ignores the mess he’s leaving behind in his wake, and tentatively, he puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder. Derek does not jerk away or tell him to fuck off, so he takes it as a good sign. “It’s okay to feel good, you know?”

He shakes his head again. “I shouldn’t have…but I couldn’t help it. You – your body, just…you.”

Stiles knows what he means. He knows what Derek is not saying, what is being said between the lines of all of this, because Stiles is intuitive and he has good emotional intelligence. He knows that Derek means to say that he cares about Stiles, that Stiles makes him feel safe, that Stiles reminds him absolutely nothing of Kate, not in the least bit, and as a result, he feels comfortable enough with him, that his body can respond to sex with Stiles the way it was literally built to. 

Beyond that, Stiles knows that Derek loves him. It’s right there in front of his face. Derek will not say it because love is perhaps something he can’t wrap his head around and can’t get his fingers on because it’s been beaten out of him so many times. But Stiles knows it. Sees it. Feels it. Derek loves him, is in love with him, needs him. 

Stiles almost wants to grab Derek and shake him and ask him if he’s an idiot, a complete fucking idiot, to go and do something so stupid like falling in love with Stiles. Stiles, who is cursed and doomed to hell, Stiles who will be dead at the hands of the same people who killed Derek’s family in a matter of days, if that? Is he insane? 

There’d be no point. What’s done is done. Knotting is one of those ancient, primal werewolf things that means mating and imprinting and all kinds of other nonsense that Stiles doesn’t understand but has simply read about. And Stiles isn’t so sure that he doesn’t love Derek right back, but it’s something he’s burying. He has no time for love. Not anymore. 

Stiles says none of these things out loud. He moves closer to Derek and he rests his chin on Derek’s shoulder, perching himself there and sighing through his nose. “I liked it,” he tells Derek very sincerely. “We’ll have to try it again, sometime.” 

With no warning, Derek grabs Stiles and pulls him into his lap. Stiles straddles Derek’s body, and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles tight and hard and quick, hugging them together like they’re melting into one another. “I’ve never met someone like you,” he says into Stiles’ skin, and Stiles knows the feeling. “Now that I’ve got you, I can’t…I can’t not have you. I’ll never let her touch you, never, _never_ , do you understand me?”

Stiles nods. He knows she will touch him, and do a lot worse than that, but he nods.

**

It turns out, Derek has a lot of books and movies and television shows because he actually enjoys them. He’s well read and he likes film. Simple as that. He tells Stiles that he really likes it when books he’s read become movies or television shows because it’s either really good and does the source work justice, or it’s terrible and fun to mock if nothing else. Stiles used to like to read and watch movies, too, but then his parents died and he didn’t have the time or the money to spend on leisure activities like that anymore – when he says this to Derek, he insists that Stiles pick through his movie collection and find one that he likes so they can watch it.

When Stiles comes back to him with Ghostbusters, Derek actually smiles. It’s a big smile. Stiles can see all of his teeth for the first time, and it’s so big his eyes crinkle at the corners. He has never ever smiled like that before, and it makes Stiles’ heart do a little clench, because it makes him seem so much softer, with that look on his face. 

He isn’t, not at all. Sometimes for little moments in time, though, he can be. 

They order pizza after arguing about toppings for ten minutes and end up with just plain cheese as a compromise. It’s bizarre to have to share with Derek, who Stiles is certain would be stacking two pizzas on top of each other and eating them both at once if Stiles were not here to be watching him – he clears three slices before Stile even finishes his first. The only reason Derek doesn’t just keep eating and eating and eating is because he figures Stiles likely needs food more than him; after all, Stiles is the rail thin one who up until recently only ate from vending machines. 

Partway through the movie, when the pizza box is empty and there are no bread sticks left, Stiles pauses it and turns to give Derek a look. “How come we don’t go to the bar or the diner to eat?” 

Derek is drinking a beer. He sips it and shrugs, like he barely knows why Stiles is asking. 

“You’re not, maybe, trying to keep me here as some weird way of protecting me from witch hunters, are you?” 

Another sip. He shrugs. Which is all the answer that Stiles needs anyway. Normally, Derek is all about going to get chicken fried steak or going to have a couple of beers at the werewolf bar and chainsmoking his nights away, or at least he likes to be outside doing things instead of sitting at home on his couch all the time. 

“Don’t you have fights to be fighting?” 

Derek says, “I cancelled them for the next few days.” 

“Because you think you can protect me from hunters.” 

He gives Stiles a stern look. “I can. I don’t think so. I know so.” 

Stiles doesn’t very much feel like having this conversation, because it’s not likely to be a fun one – but Derek had been more open and honest with him than he had ever been, after the sex and the knotting, and maybe Stiles owes him a little bit of truth and honesty right back. He looks down at his jeans and traces a circle on them with his index finger, mouth curving down. “You know, my mother was a very, very powerful witch. She was more powerful than I will ever be. And they killed her like it was nothing. They hung her from the tree in my backyard and I found her like that.” 

“Jesus,” Derek breathes this through his teeth. 

“If they can kill her, they can certainly kill me.” Derek opens his mouth to retort this, but Stiles cuts him off. “I know, you’ll go insane if they touch me, they’ll have to kill you first and the joke’s on them because you can’t die, yadda yadda. But…” he doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes, when he says this. “…you don’t need to protect me. It’s my fortune.” 

Instead of getting angry, Derek surprisingly rolls his eyes. “That’s nonsense. It’s just lines on your palm, Stiles. It can mean any number of things.” 

This, too, is surprising. Because for once, Derek is actually right about something in regards to magic. The lines really can mean any number of things – most lines have multiple interpretations. In fact, almost all of them do. But this doesn’t necessarily matter, because Stiles is certain of what his lines truly do mean, has been certain of it for a very long time, now. This is one of those arguments that is useless to have with Derek, however, so Stiles just purses his lips. 

“Lines on your hand can’t tell you what’s going to happen to you.” 

“And magic isn’t real, and men can’t turn into wolves,” Stiles fires back sarcastically – Derek sighs. He knows he’s been bested verbally, because Stiles excels at verbal lashings more than even Derek does. 

But Derek is better at pretty much everything else. Except magic, of course. 

He puts his beer down on the coffee table and turns his body so they’re facing one another on the couch, their knees touching. On the television, the screen is frozen on the green slime monster in the hallway of the hotel, and it’s almost silly enough to make Stiles laugh. But Derek looks so serious, so Stiles presses his lips down. 

“How many times are you going to make me say this? I _can’t_. Lose you. All right?” 

Stiles averts his eyes, and he nods, and he hugs his arms against his stomach. It makes him feel horrible, like he should rip the band-aid off and just get the awfulness over with already, because he does not want to hurt Derek. He doesn’t want to have to say to Derek that he knows he’s going to die soon, in a matter of days, and he doesn’t want to have to argue with him about that, because there is no use. What’s done is done. Stiles has got karma coming back his way tenfold. 

Most of all, he does not want to be the reason that Derek experiences any kind of pain whatsoever. Hasn’t he been through enough? Hasn’t he suffered enough? 

Stiles reaches his hand out and, for the first time, interlocks it with Derek’s. He laces their fingers together and Derek allows it with a bit of a grimace, looking awkward and weird probably because he’s never held hands with any living person before in his life. 

“We’re like this,” he gestures to their fingers, locked together like a lattice. “We understand each other’s pain.” 

Like interlocking puzzle pieces, again. 

“I think I knew you in another life,” he says, and Derek bears this romantic proclamation exactly how Stiles would expect him to. With a sigh and a set to his face that suggests he thinks this is all idiotic, but he doesn’t rip his hand away and tell Stiles to shut up, so maybe he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. “I think I will know you in the next one, too.” 

“How about we just focus on this one, for now?”

“This one,” Stiles repeats back to him, voice low, “isn’t all that great.” 

“Just…let me try and protect you,” he snaps, mad like he always is, gripping onto Stiles’ fingers a bit harder. “I know you’re the night and you’re scary, but I need to…” likely, for his own peace of mind, Derek just has to keep Stiles inside of his house. There’s a werewolf element to that, like trapping his mate in his den and curling around them and growling at anyone who approaches, but Derek won’t admit that part, at least not out loud in words. 

It’s pointless. They’ll come either way. But Stiles nods his head once and smiles thinly, releasing his hand and pressing play on the movie again.

** 

Stiles sits up in the middle of the night, right as lightning flashes across Derek’s living room floor. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and Derek is dead asleep next to him – he looks up, at the ceiling, where he can hear the pitter patter of rain hitting Derek’s tin roof. He stares at it for a moment, listening, and thunder booms close by. Very close. Right outside the door close. It’s a wonder that Derek can sleep through it, yet Stiles was awoken by the rain alone.

He reaches out and touches Derek on the arm, shaking him gently. “Wake up,” he says, and that does it. His snoring abruptly stops and he opens his eyes, turning to face Stiles with a grouchy expression on, having been rudely awoken. “They’re here.”

“What?” He’s confused. He might think he’s still dreaming.

Stiles swings his legs off the mattress and stands up, grabbing at the jeans he had thrown off to the side when he got in bed earlier that night. He throws them on hastily, while Derek is still working on untangling himself from the blankets and the sheets, and then the first t-shirt he can find goes over his shoulders. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, fumbling out of the bed and climbing up to his feet. “What are you –“

He goes to the front door and puts his shoes on. If he’s going to be taken then he’s going to have his fucking shoes on, and he doesn’t know why this detail matters, but it does to him, even while Derek is staggering around trying to put his pants on. 

“What makes you think that –“

“I know it,” he says, and he puts his hands on the front door. He feels along the grooves of the wood as the rain gets louder, harder, an all encompassing sort of sound, and presses his palms against it, closing his eyes. He uses the same spell that he used to use on his apartment door, way back before all of this stuff started, to keep people out. 

The door glows red for a moment as it seals, and Derek is moving to him in the light of it. “It’s three in the morning.”

“They’re coming,” he insists, and then he looks to meet Derek’s eyes. He seems placid, and a little annoyed, like he thinks this is another one of Stiles’ weird witchy nonsense quirks, waking him up at three AM with a hunch that he’s about to be murdered. Maybe he thinks that since he can’t hear or smell or see anything with his heightened senses, that Stiles is wrong and being silly and in ten minutes they’ll be back in bed, limbs locked together, fast asleep. “Hear that?”

Derek rolls his eyes at him, but he squints and listens. Over the sound of the rain it might be harder for him to hear much of anything at all, especially something that’s far enough away, but after a moment, he frowns. He moves closer to the door, cocking his head to the side like a dog, and listens. 

It’s five seconds later his eyes light up. They glow, bright electric blue in the dim light from the moon streaming in through his windows – it’s the first time Stiles has ever really seen his wolf eyes before, and he’s taken aback by just how blue they really are. “I can smell her,” he says, which in the top five worst and grossest things that Derek has ever said to Stiles before. 

All the same, it’s confirmation of Stiles’ sixth sense. Derek goes to the front window and throws the curtain aside, glaring out into the night so the streetlight outside his place illuminates the angry, downward curve of his mouth. He’s looking for something, someone, but Stiles is pre-occupied. He runs across the room to the shelf where he had laid out all his spellbooks and gathers them up into his arms, taking them to the closet door that he had sealed with ancient magic. He opens it and dumps them on top of the money, saying, “no one can ever see those books.”

“What?” Derek is glaring outside at the rainstorm, still.

“If they get those books, they’ll burn them or use them to their advantage. You have to make sure they don’t see them.”

He finally takes his head out from behind the curtain and looks at Stiles, who is currently sweeping crystals into a little pouch he makes out of the front of his shirt. “What are you talking about?”

He scatters the crystals on top of the books and shakes his head. “Just swear to me you won’t let them near this stuff. It’s sacred. I’d take it with me,” he gestures to the back of his neck, “but if they kill me, it’ll –“ 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Derek moves across the hardwood floor, and it creaks under his feet as he comes right up to Stiles, “who the fuck said anything about them killing you?”

“I’m saying it, right now,” he slams the closet door shut and meets Derek’s eyes directly. They’re angry, his brow drawn in, his jaw clenched, and this is his typical facial expression, but in the moment, Stiles is weirdly fond of it. Derek’s anger is a friend to him, in more ways than one. “Swear you’ll keep them safe.”

“I’ll keep _you_ safe.”

“You can’t promise that,” he mutters. 

Lightning flashes, illuminating the both of them in an eerie sort of white light that makes their features more pronounced and shadowy than before for just a split second, before it’s gone, and it’s pitch dark again. Derek can likely see Stiles just fine in the dark with his special werewolf senses, but Stiles isn’t nearly as well-sighted. He can make out the shape of Derek and his frown and the set to his jaw, his hair, but his tattoos are all just dark blobs on his skin. 

“Maybe we should try to run,” he suggests, backing away from Derek, but he knows that running is ultimately futile. They’ll chase him and find him and kill him, no matter what he tries to do. Once they decide they want somebody dead, they’re very good at seeing to it that it goes their way. 

Derek grabs him by his arm and holds on tight, fingers digging into the skin so hard Stiles is liable to bruise. “You’re afraid,” he accuses, and Stiles could laugh out loud, because yes, yes, holy shit he’s afraid, he’s terrified, and this isn’t an insane emotion to be having, it isn’t at all, but Derek says it like it is. “I told you I’d fucking do anything to keep them –“

“Anything isn’t enough,” he says this right into Derek’s face, while Derek just stares at him. Stiles has rarely, pretty much never, shouted at Derek before. But he is shouting, now. “You want to save me from them because if you do that, then it’s like some weird kind of redemption for what happened to your family.”

Derek holds his eye contact. “I want to save you because you’re all I fucking have.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that. It settles there in between them, and it hovers in the air all heavy and thick, because it’s the truth. It’s the truth for both of them. In this world, they only have one another, and it’s not fair in the slightest bit that they’re going to lose one another after having just barely gotten to spend any time together. Derek refuses to believe it, but Stiles has known. 

There’s an engine coming towards them outside, and both of them flick their eyes toward the front door on instinct. It sits, a faint red glow around it from Stiles’ magic, and then there’s a car door slamming. Another slam. Stiles can only hear the big noises, but Derek can likely hear them talking to one another, the metallic click of firearms or whatever else they use to capture witches and werewolves, and it makes him angry. Maybe he is familiar with those voices and those particular sounds. 

He moves like he’s going to go fling that door open and go running out to face them head on, half-wolfed out and growling under his breath as he goes, but Stiles stops him. Not with his arms because he doesn’t have the physical strength to do so, but with a sweeping gesture of one hand that stops Derek dead in his tracks, trips him a bit, so he nearly falls over onto his face. 

“They’ll shoot you with wolfsbane, god dammit,” Stiles barks at him, and Derek grits his teeth.

“What am I supposed to do? Just stand here?” 

“Yes,” he says, even though it’s useless. In Stiles’ ideal situation, Derek stands there and lets them take Stiles away and doesn’t try to fight them, because then, Derek won’t get hurt. He may not be able to die, but like he’s said himself, pain is very real, and Stiles doesn’t want him to suffer more than he likely already will when this night is over. 

Derek opens his mouth to say something, likely some bullshit about how he’s a big strong werewolf and he can kill anyone he wants, and he’ll kill all of them with his bare hands the second they come near Stiles – and Stiles does not want to hear it. Not right now. 

He cuts Derek off by throwing himself at him, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and kissing him on the mouth. It’s hard and rushed, footsteps coming up Derek’s walk in the background, and Derek grips him by his hips and kisses him back. 

Stiles thinks this will be the last kiss he will get from Derek Hale in this lifetime. It’s not long enough. It’s over too soon. A million years of kissing would still not be enough. 

“I won’t let them take you,” Derek tells him very sincerely, with all the faith in the world that he can stop this from happening, and Stiles says nothing. Really, he has nothing to say. Or, he has a million things he wants to say but no time to say them. Derek looks at the front door and its glow, and then he looks back to Stiles. “Can that really keep them out?”

Stiles swallows a lump in his throat. “Temporarily. So long as –“

The door knob rattles. It doesn’t open at first, because Derek had actually locked it before going to sleep for once, mostly at Stiles’ behest, but then it gets broken clean off the door and sends pieces of wood splintering off in all directions. It opens with a creak, and in the bright red shine of the forcefield sitting in the doorway, there stands a woman with long hair and a smile on her face. 

“Hi boys,” her smile is menacing and cruel. “You grew up nicely, didn’t you, Derek?”

Derek says nothing to her. He stands there clenching and unclenching his fists, and he wants to surge forward and rip this woman’s throat out with his teeth so fucking badly, Stiles can see it all over his face. But he stays put. He may be hoping that Stiles’ spell keeps her, and the two men idling behind her with big fat shotguns slung over their shoulders, out and away. Maybe he thinks Stiles’ magic is powerful enough that he won’t have to do much of anything. 

She reaches out and presses her palm against the air where the spell sits, so that a ripple goes through the red as if she’s just touched water. “That’s a good one,” she comments conversationally as she feels along the edges of it. “I’ve got one for you, too.”

Out of her pocket she produces a small glass bottle. Stiles stiffens at the sight of it. He had always wondered what it was they had done to his mother to render her helpless, to make it so she couldn’t fight back when she was so powerful and smart and seemingly omnipotent to Stiles when he was a kid – he figured maybe mugwort or salt or unicorn blood, any number of well known witch repellents and kryptonites. 

He should’ve figured it had been mistletoe. 

Desperately he tries to throw one last spell at her before she can do anything, just a defensive or a fireball or a zap or just fucking anything, but he’s not quick enough. It’s too fast for even Derek to react – she throws the bottle into the living room, sends it sailing through the red forcefield and onto Derek’s hardwood floor, where it promptly shatters and spills its contents in a big gray cloud all across the room.

In seconds, it’s in Stiles’ eyes and nose and mouth, and he’s choking on it – violently. It assaults all of his senses at once and knocks him over, coughing and kneeling on the floor with tears streaming down his face, completely incapacitated. It hurts his eyes and his skin and his mouth, it burns as he has no choice but to swallow it, and he knows he’s done for, right then and there. 

He’s on the ground on all fours, trying to breathe, almost failing, because every breath makes it worse, and worse, and worse. Derek is there, standing over him and putting his hand on Stiles’ back and saying something, asking him what’s wrong, what is that stuff, what’s happening to you, and Stiles looks up at him, through the water in his eyes, through the haze of the ground mistletoe in the air. 

His eyes are big in his head. Over his shoulder, Stiles can see the forcefield start to flicker, fail, fall completely, the red vanishing into thin air, because it can’t stay up without Stiles’ magic. And for the moment, Stiles’ magic is gone. Done for. Incapacitated. Held hostage inside of his body. He looks down at his hands and he tries to push magic out into his fingers, tries to do something, anything, and green fizzles appear, but nothing happens. It’s like white noise. 

They meet eyes. 

Whenever Stiles would imagine karma catching up to him and all the black magic he had done finally doing him in, whenever he would think that there would come a moment in his life where he would regret everything and meet his ultimate demise, this is the moment he had been thinking of, without knowing it. Watching Derek realize that Stiles is useless, that they’ve got him, that Derek maybe really can’t do anything to stop them, because without Stiles’ magic, he’s only got the ability to evade death. These hunters know how to kill and maim their kind better than they could ever imagine, and Derek knows it. His face says it all. 

The hunters are inside. Kate Argent is tall and pretty and she’s got blond hair and a vicious set to her eyes; she’s older than Stiles had imagined she would be. He thought that she was Derek’s age, but she’s…at least thirty, if not older than that. Which means that she was in her twenties when Derek was sixteen, when she slept with him and manipulated him and fucked his life to hell, and it makes Stiles angry to think of that. To think of Derek being a kid when all that shit happened, and still managing to feel like it’s all his fault that Kate did those things to him. 

Derek moves like he’s going to do something. He stands to his full height and he’s got his claws on and his eyes are blue, but Kate shoots him. Point blank in the fucking face. It can’t kill him, but it’s enough to probably knock him out cold for a minute or two. He hits the ground and Stiles winces, wants to scream but can’t, wants to help him but can’t, and there’s blood pooling up underneath his body. 

It edges close to Stiles’ fingers and he touches it. It’s warm. 

“Now that that’s out of the way,” she says, and squats down to smile at Stiles directly, while Stiles tries to impart his hatred of her with just a look alone. His eyes, his jaw, all clenched, narrowed, heated. She laughs at him. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Stiles’ tongue is numb. She knows that. 

“I thought you were an all powerful hell witch,” she cocks her head to the side as she observes him, while over her head the other two poke at Derek’s body and murmur to one another about when he’s going to wake up. “It’s amazing what such tiny little plants can do to your kind, isn’t it? Why don’t we get this over with, huh?”

She’s got mugwort in her hands and Stiles tries to resist. He tries to move away, to crawl across the floor closer to Derek’s body – he winds up in Derek’s blood pool and it gets all over him, his clothes, his hands, his arms, and Kate watches like it amuses her, somehow. 

It makes no difference. She grabs Stiles’ bloody arms and hands, and she makes a face like it disgusts her to have werewolf blood on her own skin. She’s deft about wrapping the plant around Stiles’ wrists, tight enough it burns him, makes him grunt in pain as the flowers dig into his flesh. He begins to bleed where it touches, trails of red running down his forearms to pool in the crook of his elbows, and he cries. 

He can’t help it. Derek is half-dead in a heap next to him and Derek’s blood is all over him and he’s useless to do a single thing about it. It sucks that it makes Kate smile, to see him so upset, and he wishes he could stop, but he can’t. He just can’t. He’s going to die tonight and it’s going to be painful and slow and when he wakes up afterwards he’ll be in hell. 

Seems like it’s what he deserves. It seems fair. 

“Help me get him up,” she says to her friends, who stop examining Derek’s body and come over to start putting their hands on Stiles’ body. They’re rough with him, calloused hands from handling weapons and ropes and all manner of things Stiles doesn’t want to think about, herding him up onto his feet. He can barely walk, can barely see straight, coughs up a huge wad of black blood that he spits out onto the ground. 

As he goes, he notices Derek is stirring. His brain matter is on the ground and Stiles could puke, but his face is stitching itself back together as it should, and his fingers are moving. Stiles wishes he could reach out and grab his hand, but his own are bound and bleeding and they’re taking him away, so Stiles can only look over his shoulder and watch Derek’s arm move, his good eye blinking across the room. 

Outside in the falling rain, there’s a black van parked beside Derek’s blue car. The back doors of it are open, and it’s no surprise when they pick him up and toss him inside onto the cold metal floor. He rights himself as best as he can, using his legs to propel him against the siding, so he’s got his back propped up. He coughs up black, again, and he’s sure it’s all over his mouth. He thumps his head against the van and takes in his surroundings – there’s not much to see, in here. Some guns, a black bag full of rope, and then the other two hunters climbing inside with him. For the most part, they seem perfectly content to treat him like an object, or like he barely exists. For all intents and purposes, in this moment, he doesn’t exist very much.

Without the use of his magic, he’s nothing. He comes as close to ceasing to exist as he can get without actually vanishing into a pile of dust. It’s what makes him who he is. To have it harnessed and contained this way, it’s like he’s nothing at all. 

Kate Argent is coming up behind them. She’s walking down the path from Derek’s yard, down the sidewalk, and Stiles watches her with a twist to his mouth. If he had his powers, he would be happy to send a fireball the size of Texas directly at her just to watch her burn, just to let her know how it feels. It’s not even close to the torment she has inflicted on Derek, not nearly, it doesn’t scratch the surface of the trauma, the PTSD, any of it, but it would be a start. 

She nearly gets inside of the van, but Derek comes out after her in the rain. He’s bloody, head to toe, face still not completely set back together from the gunshot wound – hell, the bullet is probably still lodged inside his fucking head somewhere, but there he stands, like it’s nothing, just a flesh wound. Stiles jerks at the sight of him all alive and not just a bloody heap on the ground, and Kate turns over her shoulder to see him. 

She grins with all her teeth. “Oh, this should be fun,” she snorts, pulling some unidentifiable black stick out from her back pocket. 

Derek comes directly for her, like he’s not afraid. Derek is not afraid of anything, not even a woman who screwed with his head and ruined his entire fucking life and is itching to try it all over again. “You fucking bitch,” he accuses her, spitting rain water out of his mouth as he does, and it’s wild to see him talking with his face like that. 

“Careful, Derek,” she warns him, “I’ve got your chew toy, back there. I mean, I’ll kill him whether you’re nice to me or not, but,” she shrugs, wielding that mysterious black stick like a weapon, so it must be, “I can make it slower.” 

“Your problem is with me, not him,” Derek wipes blood and rain off his face, carelessly. 

“My problem is with all of you,” she shoots back, and really, there’s no use in arguing with her. She’s insane, that much has been well established, and she’s that particular kind of insane where she thinks she’s the only sane one around for miles. The rest of the world has slowly acclimated itself to the idea of supernatural people existing among them, and while many fear them and avoid them and relegate those who are different to their own side of the railroad tracks, most humans don’t seek to commit genocide upon supernaturals.

Kate does. There’s no arguing with that. No logic. Nothing will do. 

Derek knows this perhaps even better than Stiles does. He growls and his eyes glow again, and there’s his claws. His face changes, another thing Stiles has never seen before, goes more menacing and scarier and harsher, all fangs and hair – it does not threaten Kate in the least bit.

The other hunters in the van with Stiles just stand back and watch, like they know this is Kate’s fight alone. They’re amused, heckling with their arms crossed over their chests. For his part, Stiles makes a valiant effort of trying to free himself from the mugwort, but he’s so weak and useless, he can’t even do that. He wishes his tongue would gain feeling back, so he could utter a curse or a hex or just fucking something, even if it was just a distraction, but he can’t. 

Derek swipes at her with his claws, and then Stiles gets to see exactly what it is that black stick of hers can do. It’s no stick, after all, it’s a taser. And a fucking good one. It knocks Derek on his ass in seconds, sends him sprawling out on the ground into a puddle and grunting in pain. But he doesn’t quit – he moves to get up, again, crawling in Stiles’ general direction, and she zaps him again, laughing like it’s fun for her to torture someone. 

Stiles looks away. He doesn’t want to see this. He hears another electrical charge, another groan of pain, and he squeezes his eyes shut. With all his strength, what little of it he has left, he rips and tears at the vines and flowers around his wrists, and it only makes his wounds there worse. It burns, tears, rips his flesh apart, but he tries. If he could just get free, if he could just move his hands to distract Kate enough that she would stop…

Derek is trying to get to him. He’s nearly debilitated by the power behind the shocks, but he is still trying to crawl to get to Stiles. After all, he had sworn and promised that he wouldn’t let Kate take him, and now here they are. Derek may be a lot of things, but a person who willingly breaks promises isn’t one of them. He’s trying his fucking best. 

Kate zaps him just one more time, and it’s strong enough that it makes Derek shift. Not the beta shift, not the halfassed thing Stiles has seen – it’s the full shift. Stiles has read that there are very few werewolves who can do this, and Derek has never once mentioned it before, but Derek is doing it - he goes all dog right before Stiles’ eyes. Clothes torn in a heap all around him, he growls and snaps his long rows of razor sharp teeth at Kate and she laughs out loud. 

He’s got black fur, and he’s huge. Like, gargantuan, words cannot describe – a blue eyed, menacing creature that’s foaming at the mouth to tear her throat out. But she laughs, tasers him one more time, eliciting a yip and a cry from the wolf, before turning around and rolling her eyes. “Let’s go,” she climbs into the van and makes a hand gesture. The van starts with a purr of the engine and Stiles watches as wolf-Derek climbs up onto his paws and shakes the water out of his fur, growling and coming toward them. 

They start moving, the back doors wide open. Stiles watches as Derek chases them, all four paws moving as fast as they physically can. He does not quit, and he likely will not quit until he finds Stiles’ dead body, and even then, he will keep going, and going, until he finally gets his hands on Kate to snap her neck once and for all for doing this to him. 

Kate shoots him again, and he goes down. He whines and trips over his paws, lying in the street as the rain pelts his body. Stiles wants to leap out of the back of this van and go lie in the street with him, but Kate slams the back doors with finality, turning to set her eyes on Stiles. “That curse is the best idea I’ve ever had,” she says this with glee, moving closer to him as the van rattles and goes over bumps in the road. “I can kill him, and kill him, and kill him, as many times as I want.”

Stiles wants to ask what is wrong with her. Why she hates Derek that much. What her fucking problem is. If she gets off on it. If this makes her happy. But he’s been struck mute, and she smiles.

She bends down to get on his level, way too close into Stiles’ personal space. He can smell her acrid perfume and gunpowder, and he twists away as best he can, but to no avail. He’s trapped here with her. She points her finger up in the air and says, “whoops, hear that?”

Stiles does. It’s a very clear, very distinct, wolf howl. It’s anguished and filled with rage that there are no words for, so loud it sends a chill up Stiles’ spine. 

“He sounds pretty mad,” she spreads her pink lips over her teeth. “I guess he likes you, huh?”

Stiles glares at her. 

“I can’t imagine why. Last I heard, wolves and witches are like cats and dogs. Especially witches like you,” she shakes her head, and then she touches him. Right on the black mark, running her fingers up and down as though she’s fascinated by it, at the same time it absolutely disgusts her. “You know, Stiles, the first time? When you were a little baby who had just lost his family? I let it go. I guess I felt sorry for you. Plus, we had to string your mother up, and I figure that wasn’t easy to see. But this second time…”

She’s referring to what he and Derek did, in the cemetery that night, when they still barely knew one another. When Derek was just an insane werewolf that Stiles had heard stories about, and Stiles was just a necromancer who was desperate for something to eat. 

“You tried to bring back Talia Hale. See, I killed her,” she points to her chest, eyes narrowing, “and I’d really prefer it if the things I kill didn’t come back. You know all about how unfun it is, having to kill what’s been brought back. Don’t you?”

Stiles spits in her face. It’s got his black blood in it, and it lands directly on her cheek. 

She wipes it off, and punches him in retribution. It’s a very good hit; the back of his head smacks into the side of the van, and it smarts. He doesn’t necessarily care all that much. The pain in his body is all sort of blurring into one unit, one ache, and he just doesn’t fucking care. 

“I’m going to fucking send you straight to where you belong,” she promises this with her index finger pointed right into Stiles’ face. “You can say hello to your mother for me, when you go.”

With that, she stands up, and leaves him to stew on that for the remainder of their trip to wherever it is they’re going. He takes in a deep breath and it’s choppy, too slow to be healthy. The mistletoe is inside of his lungs and is strangling his magic, squeezing the life out of it and in turn, killing him. She doesn’t really have to burn him, because the mistletoe will take care of it the longer it goes untreated inside of him – she’s only doing it because she wants to see him burn. It will satisfy her to watch him go up in smoke the same way it satisfied her to watch Derek’s house and family do the same. A cleansing, just like his mother had called it. 

The van comes to a stop maybe half an hour later, though time is foggy to him at the moment, and the back doors open. Stiles is confused, at first, because he was expecting maybe the middle of the woods or a clearing in a field somewhere with a stake he’s to be strapped to and burned on. Instead, he’s looking at a residential neighborhood. 

When he gets pulled out onto his feet and is looking at the full picture, he gets it. It’s not any ordinary neighborhood on the human side of town, not nearly. It’s his. It was his. He turns his head and he’s looking at his childhood house, the familiar driveway overrun with weeds, the garage empty of any cars, the façade of the house falling apart. The shingles falling off the roof from disrepair. The front door hanging off of its hinges. The windows broken in, the porch caving in on itself. 

Upon discovering that Claudia had been a witch who was hung in the tree in the backyard, and that Stiles was an even worse witch who tried to bring his dead father back from the dead and then had to kill him, no one likely wanted to move into this house. They might say it’s cursed, or haunted, or that the devil lives there now. Kids might have Halloween parties there, or dare each other to go inside to see if they’ll meet any ghosts or demons. 

There’s nothing evil about this house, Stiles knows. The only ghosts here are those of his own life, ones that he had to let go of, but that live inside of his own head all the same. 

“I thought it was poetic,” Kate tells him as she pushes him forward on shaky legs, marching him to his own execution. It is poetic in a way. It’s sick and twisted, but poetic. 

The back yard is all weeds and tall grass, but the tree is just the same as it was the last time Stiles saw it. He still remembers having to watch through his bedroom window as they cut his mother out of that tree, still remembers watching her limp body fall to the ground. The branch she was hung off of looms over his head as he crosses underneath it, casting a shadow on his face. 

The rain has all but stopped, leaving everything feeling cold and damp and misty. Daylight is getting closer, so they have to work quickly. They tie him to the tree by his waist, burying his arms and hands still wrapped in mugwort underneath so he has no hopes of escaping. It’s tight, so tight he can barely breathe against the ropes, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he needs to be breathing for very much longer, after all. 

The tree is cold and wet, but with enough tinder, it will burn. They have gasoline and dry sticks and books that they throw at his feet, gathering them up tight so they’ll burn better. There is a practiced sort of ease in the way they work, like they’ve done this many many times before, and Stiles wonders how many of his people have burned at the hands of these hunters. It makes him sad. That there are others like him out there, that there are people who understand him, who share his powers, and they are being systematically killed off. 

There aren’t very many witches left. Stiles feels like he’s part of a great exodus. 

When it comes time for them to light him up, Kate puts her hands on her hips and regards him again, a smirk on her face. “Don’t look so sad,” she reaches out and pinches his cheek, a touch that Stiles bears with a murderous glare in her direction. “Aren’t you just going where you really belong?” 

Witches don’t belong in hell. Not most of them, at least. His mother didn’t belong there, and even though Kate would love to think so, his mother is not in hell. The magic she did was different and better than anything Stiles has done his entire life. She was kind and good and she never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong, no matter what Kate thinks about her. 

Claudia is in heaven, and for that reason, Stiles will never see her again. He’s going someplace else. 

“Don’t worry about Derek,” she says, taking several steps away with a book of matches in her hand. “I’ll watch out for him. Or, I’ll kill him until it gets boring, how about?”

With those parting words, she lights the match, and throws it down onto the kindling. It lights up immediately, so much gas and so many flammable objects jam packed into one pile, and Stiles closes his eyes. He has often imagined how it might feel to be burned alive, as he thinks most witches do spend a lot of time imagining – at a certain point, he must just go numb. Once the first layer of flesh is gone, maybe it stops feeling like anything at all. The fire is burning fast, pooling around his feet and gathering at the base of the tree, so hopefully it goes quick. 

The smoke makes his vision blurry. It wets his eyes and his body’s natural instinct is to tug and pull and try to free himself, even though it’s no use whatsoever – it’s hot, ungodly hot, and he can’t breathe. The mistletoe and the smoke and the mugwort all work off of each other, so he’s paralyzed. He’s trapped, and he can feel the flames starting to lick at his feet and his calves, angry and hot. 

There are some gunshots beyond the flames and the smoke which Stiles cannot even spare a passing thought to – for Christ’s sake, there’s a giant fucking fire pit about to consume him entirely. Then, some shouting, lots of commotion, and it’s hard to hear much over the blaze of the flames, roaring and roaring and crackling in his ears. He’s hunched over and giving in, the mistletoe strangling him and the flames burning his flesh…

Then, Derek. Like a specter, coming through the smoke, leaping through the flames like he can barely even feel it. He throws himself at Stiles’ body, on top of it, as if to use his own body to protect Stiles’ from the heat. He claws the ropes and the mugwort off and throws them into the fire, feeding it which is an idiotic thing to do, but he’s got Stiles. 

He cradles Stiles against his chest and holds him, leaping out of the circle of flames and onto the cold, wet grass. Stiles is dumped onto his back, staring up at the smoky sky, almost transitioning from night to morning now in a haze of grey and blues. Derek puts his hands on Stiles’ face, and they’re bloody, like they almost always are, but he’s speaking to him.

“Stiles,” he says his name, and Stiles blinks. He can’t breathe right – it’s coming out slow, choppy, harsh. Derek knows that even though Stiles is safe from the fire, Stiles could very well still die from mistletoe exposure alone, and Stiles does not think that Derek knows what to do about that. “Come on, baby,” Derek props Stiles’ head up on a rock, and he takes Stiles by his jaw, opening his mouth. “Come on, come on, come on –“

Something wet and cold touches Stiles’ tongue. With what little power he has left, he greedily drinks it down, fast and quick, even though he has no idea what it is. As he drinks more of it, tastes it on his tongue that is rapidly regaining feeling, he realizes that Derek, mystifyingly, knew exactly what to do to rectify mistletoe poisoning. 

It’s blood. Raven’s blood, to be more accurate. Stiles has no idea how Derek got the information, how he went about hunting and killing a raven to drain its blood and bottle it up to feed it to Stiles, but it nearly doesn’t matter in this moment, because it’s working. Stiles can breathe, and his tongue feels like it’s actually in his mouth for the first time in an hour, and he sits up. 

Immediately, he leans over Derek’s body and pukes in the grass. It comes out all black and thick, like tar, but his body is expelling the mistletoe, so he doesn’t mind. He pukes, again, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees to really go at it, draining every last bit of the poison out of his body. Again. 

He looks up through teary eyes and sees the fire is engulfing the entire tree, has spread to the forest line, is consuming the yard. Derek’s dopey friend Scott is there, but he doesn’t look so dopey in this moment. He’s ripping the throat out of one of the hunters who had just tried to burn Stiles alive, blood spurting across his face, his eyes golden in the darkness of the early morning. Laura and Lydia are standing back watching with their hands on their hips, bloodied as well from killing the other hunter perhaps – and then that just leaves Kate. 

Stiles pukes up the last of the mistletoe and he’s still weak, his head foggy, his body half numb. But he pushes energy out of his hands, and this time, it comes. His hands glow green and angry, his magic infuriated at having been extinguished for so long, and he grins. 

He probably looks insane. Black teeth, eyes all pupil and dark with magic, his clothes half burnt off, green lightning in his hands. But he doesn’t care. 

Kate is not a quitter. Even though she has no backup, even though there’s a raging forest fire breaking out all around her, and she’s outmanned, outgunned, she doesn’t run away. She’s angry with her teeth grit as she starts coming directly for Derek Hale, that big taser in her hand again. Stiles had seen just how badly werewolves can handle electricity first hand and he’s not too keen on having to sit here and watch Derek suffer again, so he pushes himself up to his feet as best as he can. 

He’s weak. He nearly falls right over where he stands, with Derek still in the grass underneath him. But he can do this. 

Derek growls and glows his eyes with the expectation he will have to fight Kate, as she comes up to him with the taser poised and ready to go, already cracking with an electric charge – Stiles, now with the ability to talk, hisses ancient Latin directly at her and snaps his fingers. 

Where she had once been holding her taser, now she’s holding a long black snake. It has glowing red eyes and it twists in her grip, hissing and as angry as Stiles is. She’s stupefied and afraid, screaming and jumping back, her hand releasing the thing like it’s caught fire. It’s not fast enough. 

The snake strikes harsh and quick, bites her right in the fucking face. Not just once either – it strikes three times, that unlucky cursed number, and then flops to the ground to slither about in the grass. She’s still screaming, even as she falls and clutches at her face where the venom had gone in, writhing about for as long as she can. It starts to paralyze her fast, though, so she stills, body quaking. 

The wolves leap back and look around frantically to see where the snake went, but Stiles waves his hand. “He won’t bite you,” he says, bending down and collecting his friend from the grass. “He listens to me.” 

It curls around his hands and hisses. Derek does not like it. Dogs famously don’t like snakes, after all. He stands up and makes a face at it, flicking his eyes between Kate struggling to breathe on the ground and the venomous snake in Stiles’ hands. 

Stiles brings the snake up close to his face and whispers at it, more creepy Latin that has the werewolves sharing wide eyed looks with one another, and just as quickly as it had come, it disappears, gone from his hands like it never was at all. 

That out of the way, he approaches Kate on slow, unsteady feet. The bite of that snake will only take twenty minutes to kill her, especially because she had gotten such a huge dose of it. It may take even less time than that. Stiles doesn’t very much feel like waiting around for that to happen, because he wants to see her die. 

After what she’s done to Derek, he wants to fucking stand there and watch. Nevermind what she did to Stiles’ mother, his life, to himself. 

Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ arm as if to stop him, but Stiles shrugs out of his grip and says, “no, it’s fine.” 

It is fine. He walks right up to her and zaps her – big green currents of energy that rattle her entire body the same way her taser blasts had rattled Derek. Her body jerks, closer to the fire, and Stiles does it again, inching her to the edge of the flames, and then again, her body convulsing so bad she can’t even scream in pain. 

“Jesus Christ,” Laura says, and they’re all watching, eyes huge, bodies still. 

Using one last big push of green, the last bit of Stiles’ energy, Kate goes entirely into the fire. With all the snake venom paralyzing her and the electricity stupefying her and the flames swallowing her whole, her death is silent but horrendously painful. As it should be. He watches for a moment as she turns to bones and dust, the flames lighting up his face, and then Derek is right beside him. He doesn’t have anything to say, because of course he doesn’t, but he watches the same as Stiles does. 

Maybe he’s thought a lot about getting to watch this woman die. Stiles hopes it makes him happy to see it. 

There’s no time to really relish her death or enjoy it, because sirens begin to bellow in the distance, fire trucks coming as fast as they can to put this fire out before it destroys the entire neighborhood. Derek says, “we need to go, right now.” It wouldn’t do to have the fire department and police pull up to see them all covered in blood with dead bodies all around them, that’s for sure. 

The other wolves all turn and head for the woods without needing to be asked twice, but Derek is lingering behind with Stiles, who’s just used the last of his energy on killing Kate, and can barely walk. He tries to jerk forward, but he falls and Derek catches him. 

He doesn’t even hesitate. He scoops Stiles up like he weighs less than a cat, and carries him on quick feet into the bowels of the woods. Derek is fast, even with the extra weight of Stiles in his arms, and he keeps up just fine with the others. Werewolves can run fast, Stiles has always known that – but actually moving this quickly, with the trees all buzzing past him like they’re barely there at all, it makes his head spin, and he’s dizzy on top of everything else that’s going on inside of him at the moment. 

Soon, the sirens are all gone, and the smoke gets less hazy. They’re far, deep and deeper into the woods, way deeper than Stiles has ever personally been himself. Stiles doesn’t know what the firemen are going to think about what they find. Two dead bodies and a third that’s been made unidentifiable by the blaze Stiles had thrown her into. If they’re all human, they might think it was some kind of satanic ritual gone horribly wrong – after all, it’s all taken place on the cursed Stilinski property, which is famously overrun by demons and ghosts, according to popular belief. There’s no evidence that could incriminate any of them personally. Just fire and death. 

They finally come to a stop in a bit of a clearing in the trees. None of them are even winded, barely panting as they stand and seem to focus all of their attention on Derek and Stiles. 

Derek sets him down on the ground gently, next to a big tree, on top of its roots digging into the ground like tendrils all around him. The earth is cold underneath him but it feels good – some of his skin is burned, after all, and he pokes at his legs with a wince. 

“There,” Lydia says like she’s annoyed, and she probably is. “Now you’ve got your boytoy back. And I’m going home to wash the blood off in a long, hot shower.” She gives Derek a pointed look, then a wary look for Stiles, and turns to leave with a flick of her long red hair. 

Scott points to Stiles with a big cheery grin on his face, and he says, “you are terrifying! Remind me not to piss you off.” He leans down and pats Stiles on the shoulder a couple times, then moves and does the same to Derek, who bears it with a grimace. Stiles has a feeling that normally, Derek would snap his jaws at Scott for trying to bro-pat him like that, but today, after Scott just helped save Stiles’ life, he allows it. 

Scott goes after Lydia, into the shadows of the woods, and then that just leaves Laura. She puts her arms across her chest and looks at Derek, who just looks back at her. 

They stare at one another for a moment. Stiles wishes he could read minds to suss out what they’re thinking, right about now. There is likely so much they have to talk about, so much they’d like to say to one another, but so much has happened between the two of them that now it’s hard for them to be honest and open with one another. 

Plus, they’re werewolves. Feelings and emotions and all that bullshit are not things that come naturally to them. 

Derek speaks first. He says, “thank you.” It sounds like it is hard for him to say it. 

Laura’s lips twitch. She shoots a glance at Stiles, who is currently still sitting on the ground attending to a small burn wound on his leg, and then looks right back to Derek. “I wouldn’t let you lose him. Not right after you found him.” 

Derek nods. Apparently there is nothing else they feel the need to say to one another, because Laura turns and follows after her friends. Her pack, maybe. Maybe that’s Derek’s pack, too, even though he resists it and tries to isolate himself from the rest of the world as best as he can. 

Maybe it’s Stiles’ pack, as well, and all this was like his initiation. 

After they’re all gone, Derek kneels down in front of Stiles and stares at him. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted and his clothes are torn and bloodied, but that’s par for the course as far as Derek goes. The gunshot wound in his face is gone completely, healed as though it had never happened, and wherever the bullet had gone in when Kate shot him the second time in the street, that’s healed as well. 

“How did you know?” Stiles asks him. “About the raven’s blood.” 

Derek shrugs. “Lydia knows everything. I told her what the stuff they poisoned you with looked like and she knew what to do.” 

“It surprises me you went to them,” he says quietly, meeting Derek’s eyes. “You must have been desperate.” 

Derek looks away. He stares at the ground underneath them for a moment, frowning with his eyebrows drawn in together. After a beat, he says, “I thought…I thought I was going to have to find your body,” he says, slowly, like he’d rather chew glass than talk about this. “All burned. Just like everyone else.” 

Stiles nods. Just like Derek’s whole family. Just like that. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head, again and again. “I can’t not have you. I need you. You –“ this is hard for him to say, but he plows forward anyway. “…are everything. To me. And I won’t live without you.” 

Stiles hugs him. It’s awkward because Derek is not a hugger, but he forces it upon him anyway, because he needs to be close. After everything that just happened, he needs to be as close to him as possible. He pulls their bodies together and they stay that way for a minute, just pressed against one another, feeling each other’s heartbeats, both of them alive and fine, in spite of the universe’s conspiring to fuck this entire thing up. 

When they pull apart, Stiles smiles at him. Derek doesn’t smile much, so his lips just barely quirk, but Stiles will take it. 

“I didn’t know you could go full wolf,” he says, and Derek actually blushes a bit, looking away. 

“It’s rare. I don’t show it off because it makes other wolves angry. But. My mother could do it, too,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But it’s very clearly a huge fucking deal. Derek is in an elite class of shapeshifters that can actually, you know, _shape shift_. That’s not nothing. 

It turns out Derek Hale is not just unkillable and insanely good at hand to hand combat. He’s also an extremely rare type of werewolf, like finding a four leaf clover. Stiles wonders if Derek has any idea just how special he is, and he bets not. Maybe he thinks his full wolf is a curse of some kind. 

“Can I see?” He asks tentatively. 

Derek probably does not show this to a lot of people. Maybe almost no one left alive has seen it except for Laura, and that makes this moment feel spectacular – like Stiles is being let in on a little secret that only the two of them share. He hesitates at first, but then at Stiles’ big pleading eyes, he huffs a sigh and stands up. 

He takes his clothes off, bloodied and half burned shirt first, then his pants and underwear, and folds them up neatly on a pile by Stiles’ body. Just like when it had happened as Kate electrocuted it out of him, it happens quickly. And there doesn’t seem to be too much effort put into it; one second he’s a man, standing tall and solid, and the next, he’s on all fours as a big black wolf, blinking neon blue eyes at Stiles. 

Stiles grins. He reaches out to touch, slowly, because Derek might spook – but he stays put. He lets Stiles dig his fingers into his fur and scratch behind his pointy ears, touch his face and his snout and whiskers, and then his paws. 

They are huge. Big, killing machine paws, with claws the size and length of Stiles’ fingers. But he’s sort of a gentle giant, as far as Stiles is concerned at least. He allows Stiles’ petting and touching without much complaint, even when Stiles grabs onto his fluffy tail with a laugh. It’s silly. Derek has a tail. Go figure. 

Derek presses the cold nose of his snout against Stiles’ neck and chuffs a bit, and it tickles, so Stiles laughs out loud. It echoes above the trees, sends a couple of birds flying up and away in surprise. 

Then, he noses a bit at Stiles’ wounds on his wrists. There are deep cuts and lacerations there, some still actively bleeding. “It’s okay,” Stiles waves his hand like it’s no big deal. “It doesn’t hurt so bad. Well, it does, but it’ll heal.” 

It’s weird, at first, when Derek licks at the cuts. Stiles thinks he just wants to taste Stiles’ blood, which wouldn’t even be the weirdest thing that the two of them have done to one another. But the more he licks, the more Stiles realizes what he’s doing. 

He’s cleaning the wounds, and healing them over. Where his tongue touches, the pain goes away, like it never was. The skin stitches itself back together with the wolf’s saliva, and Stiles just watches with big eyes, completely mystified. 

He did not know Derek could do things like that. It may only be affective on shallow, surface level wounds, but all the same, it’s incredible. 

When Derek deems them healed enough, he sits down on his haunches and observes Stiles with his big blue eyes, cocking his head to the side. It’s as though he’s asking Stiles what he would like to do, now. His face is more expressive as a wolf than it has ever been as a human; and that’s just…typical. Completely typical Derek Hale nonsense. 

What _would_ Stiles like to do, now? It feels like a big question. He had spent so long, so much of his life, pretty much betting that he was going to burned at the stake and sent straight to hell. He had thought that when his apartment got burned, that would be it. He was going to die. 

Now, he’s alive. And Derek is alive. They both got what they wanted, and neither of them are used to that, so they just stare at each other for a moment. What are they going to do, now? What are they going to do? 

“Can we take a nap, maybe?” He gestures to himself up and down. “My magic needs to recharge and I’m exhausted and weak, like an old lady.” 

Derek lies down. He flattens himself onto the ground, and curls himself around Stiles like a big, warm pillow. Even though it’s cold down here in the dark morning without the sun even up yet, Derek gives off heat like a fucking oven. He’s burning hot, and his fur is soft to the touch – Stiles cuddles up against him, laying his head on Derek’s fuzzy chest, his fingers digging into the fur. 

He’s asleep in minutes, under the canopy of the forest, Derek’s first home.

**

The sun wakes them up. They’ve maybe only gotten a couple of good hours of sleep, but it’s enough, or it seems like it is, as Stiles sits up and stretches, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He’s definitely not back up to a hundred percent magic wise, but he’s getting there. He no longer feels like he’s barely clinging onto life or sanity, for one, which is always a good thing.

The wounds on his wrists aren’t healed completely, but they’re scabbing over and they’re not bleeding anymore, thanks to Derek’s magical werewolf nonsense from earlier. 

Derek is still a wolf, for a moment. He yawns and his ears flatten against his skull, and Stiles thinks it’s in the top ten cutest things he’s ever seen in his entire life – so he can’t help from reaching out to pet him on the head a couple of times. 

There may be a limit to how long Derek can stand to be patted. Because in seconds, he’s shifted back into human form, and Stiles is petting at tattooed skin, no fur to speak of. He gives Stiles a bit of a look, and then he leans forward and kisses Stiles on the mouth. 

It’s hot and fast, teeth biting down on Stiles’ lower lip, and then he pulls off just as quickly, staring directly into Stiles’ eyes. He says, “can I knot you?” First thing in the god damn morning, and this is what Derek has to say. 

Stiles would be surprised at this jump from life threatening danger right into sex, but that’s simply how Derek’s mind works. There is no better way on earth for Derek to let Stiles know just how relieved he is that both of them are alive together than to fuck him. The man is literally half animal, after all, so Stiles cannot blame him. 

“That depends,” he teases, cocking his head to the side. “Are you going to call me baby when you do so?” 

Derek presses his lips down. Stiles figured it was like that. Because he’s not really a pet name person, not at all, not for just anyone – but Stiles is not just anyone. And maybe it’s only when he’s so deep in the throes of sex or danger when he lets it slip out of him, but the fact remains that Derek thinks of Stiles that way. As his. “Would you let me fuck you if I did?” 

Stiles nods. 

Derek sighs through his nose, and Stiles just has to grin, because he knows that it’s torment to make Derek be cutesy with him, even like this. But too bad. Derek is going to have to learn to play by at least some of Stiles’ rules from here on out. 

He looks up through his eyelashes at Stiles and says, “baby,” in this tone of voice that makes Stiles blush all the way up to the tips of his ears, “can I knot you?” 

Stiles nods his agreement, already moving to pull his half-burned shirt off of his body and tossing it aside. There’s some black ash swipes on his skin but he pays them no mind, leaning back to unbutton his jeans. Derek has to help him take them off along with his underwear, pulling them down his legs and tossing them aside into a pile in the dirt somewhere. 

Derek climbs on top of him and they kiss. More of Derek’s insane kissing. Tongues and teeth and saliva all mixing together, as Derek grinds his already rock hard erection against Stiles’, that’s still only just starting to form. Derek likes it when Stiles moans directly into his mouth, so he grabs Stiles by the jaw with their mouths pressed together open and hot and panting, and strokes Stiles once, long and slow, just to swallow the sound Stiles makes down his own throat.

He pulls away for a moment and says, “I don’t have any lube.” And this would be damning for them in this particular situation because there is truly no way, no way no how, that Stiles’ human body could possibly be knotted without lube. Period. It just would not happen. 

Stiles blushes a bit, but he reaches behind his neck and pulls a small bottle out from his hair, offering it to Derek a little bashfully. 

Derek raises his eyebrows as he takes it. 

“I just figured…” he shrugs, embarrassed. “…at some point you’d wanna have sex in a weird place like this,” he points at the woods around them. “Might as well be prepared.” 

Derek has got nothing to say to that. He flips Stiles over onto his hands and knees, and Stiles’ palms are digging into a small leaf pile, his knees muddy with dead leaves sticking to them, but Derek, of course, does not care. Fucking in the woods is not a problem to him, because it’s where he’s the most comfortable. He’s probably fantasized about getting to take Stiles like this, underneath a big oak tree, surrounded by earth and sticks and…bugs. 

If Stiles sees a bug, he will be turned off so fucking fast. So he hopes he doesn’t see any. 

Derek is parting Stiles’ ass with both hands, squeezing the cheeks as he leans down and swipes his tongue against Stiles’ entrance just once, to test the waters. Stiles jerks and bears down, spreading his legs more so Derek has more room to work – it’s also a silent beg for him to please do it more. Derek does. He licks, vicious swipes of his tongue that have Stiles’ cock leaking precome, whining, thrusting his body back to meet the pleasure head on. 

“Feels good,” he says, mindless, to nothing and no one. Derek hmm’s in agreement, digging his tongue into Stiles so good Stiles pants, open mouthed and filthy. “Oh, fuck, Derek…” 

Derek flicks his tongue just a couple more times around Stiles’ rim, and then he sits back up. Stiles hears the tell tale click of the lube being opened up, the squirt onto Derek’s fingers, and then two are pressing at his hole, sliding in. It’s made easier by getting eaten out that’s for sure, his entrance already half opened up by Derek’s tongue. 

He fingers hard and deep, pressing and scissoring to open it up as much as he can – this time, he’s well aware of the fact that he’s going to knot Stiles, so he’s being extra precautious, and taking his time. Stiles can enjoy a good fingering when it’s done right, and Derek pretty much does everything right as far as sex is concerned, so he doesn’t mind it. Derek adds a third finger and rubs up and down Stiles’ back with his free hand, soothing circles. 

He says, bizarrely for the situation, but true to form, “thanks for killing Kate.” 

“Uh,” he could laugh. He’s on his hands and knees with Derek’s fingers inside of him after getting eaten so good he practically cried, and that’s what Derek has to say. Jesus fucking Christ. “Well, sure.” 

“It was nice to watch her burn to death.” 

“Yeah…” he nods his agreement. Derek is being psycho, again. “This isn’t the sexiest thing we could be talking about.” 

“I know. Just…you’re so powerful. It turns me on.” 

Stiles smiles at the dead leaves underneath him and then bites his lip to stifle it down. “Right back at you.” 

With that, Derek slicks his dick up and presses the head into Stiles with a harsh pump of his hips and a whine from Stiles. He gets inside more, and more, bottoming out on a deep moan from the back of his throat. “Fuck, I can already feel it starting,” he mutters, sliding in and out once and then shaking, freezing in place. 

It’s amazing how Derek went from being physically incapable of knotting anyone, even his own hand in private, because of the sexual manipulation that Kate had done to him when he was just a teenager – to knotting Stiles less than ten seconds after entering his body. It’s almost as though it’s making up for lost time, or something. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Derek chants, burying himself against Stiles’ body as it expands and grows inside. Stiles isn’t surprised by it this time, but it hurts, still. It may always hurt a little bit, no matter how well Derek preps him or what he does to make Stiles more comfortable, but it’s not a bad hurt. It’s like a pleasure he can’t think of a name for, feeling Derek’s body growing inside of him and latching on, so they couldn’t separate even if they wanted to. It catches on the rim and Stiles moans, pressing his cheek onto the dirty ground below, hiking his ass up more for Derek, who shows his appreciation by rubbing and caressing him mindlessly, all over. 

It’s as big as it’s going to get now, and they’re stuck. Derek comes and Stiles feels it. The jerk of his hips. The tightening of his hands on Stiles’ body. “Let me show you how good it can feel,” Derek says, and his voice is all low and almost distorted – for all Stiles knows, he’s half wolfed out, glowing eyes and all, and it wouldn’t be surprising. 

He works his hips in a circle, so the tip of his dick massages Stiles’ prostate just right at the same time that the knot rubs against Stiles’ rim. Stiles is stupefied by the pleasure for a moment, silent with his mouth hanging open, because it’s unreal how good it feels. Derek does that again, and Stiles sees stars, fingers scrabbling uselessly at leaves and twigs. 

“You like it?” Derek asks, his cock twitching inside of Stiles as he comes some more. “Fuck, you’re so tight inside…”

He moves his hips just one more time and that’s all it takes. Stiles orgasms so fucking good and hard he can’t see straight after, coming in spasms that leave him gasping and whining. 

Derek pets him like it’s a job well done, still buried deep and locked together with him. “I’ve never felt like this before,” he says, all sex drunk and weird, “baby, I love you.” 

Stiles is still coming down from perhaps the greatest prostate given orgasm he’s ever had in his entire life, so the enormity of this moment is almost lost on him. Almost, but not entirely. 

Derek comes again, a harsh jab of his hips against Stiles. When Stiles looks over his shoulder, he finds this insanely blissed out, totally open, completely vulnerable expression on Derek’s face. He has his eyes closed, lips parted, just enjoying it – Stiles’ body is all his to derive pleasure from, and Stiles like that. He likes that he put that expression on Derek’s face, he likes that his body turns Derek on so much. 

The knot is lasting far longer than it had the first time. It’s been so long that Stiles is stiff on his hands and knees, and he’s a bit cold, even with the sun shining through the trees around them, so he shivers. Derek notices and immediately blankets Stiles with his own body, gently laying them both down together on the ground so he can use his body heat to warm Stiles up. 

Inside, Derek’s cock is spent, no more come left in him – but he still orgasms all the same, eyes rolling back in his head. “God, it’s gonna kill me,” he whines, dramatic. 

Stiles huffs a laugh. “Imagine nothing can kill you except for really good sex. Death by orgasm.” 

Derek’s not totally in the building right now. Where he’s gripping Stiles’ hip, there are claws sprouted and grazing Stiles’ skin, which is all the evidence that Stiles needs that Derek is in another state of mind. 

He’s running on the werewolf part of his brain. Stiles still feels safe and protected with him, though, so he doesn’t mind. Not at all. He just settles against Derek’s body, the knot pulsing inside of him, and shuts his eyes, warm and safe with Derek inside him. 

“I love you so fucking much it’ll kill me,” Derek hisses into Stiles’ ear, and Stiles nods. “I’ve never trusted anyone, _anyone_ , not like you.” 

Stiles nods, again. The only time that Derek may ever be this open and honest with him is when he’s knotting, so Stiles takes it all in and savors it, every word. “I love you, too.” 

He really, really does. 

When it’s all over, both of them are completely filthy. Derek says he knows that the river is not too far for where they are, so they gather their clothes up in their arms and walk the quarter mile it takes to get there completely naked. Stiles may be in tune with the earth and nature more than an average person would be, but has never been the ‘walk around completely naked in the woods’ type. But here he is, doing it all the same. 

The water is fast and high, this time of year. It glitters in the morning sun as Stiles dives directly into it beside Derek, going as deep as he can. It’s up to his waist, and he dunks himself all the way in, head underwater. 

It feels like he’s not just washing off the smell of smoke or the blood or the fear of the last twenty four hours, but that he’s washing everything off. The past few years of his life. The misery, the depression, the green blood on his hands that he washed in the nearest puddle he could find after he killed the zombie-thing that was not his father. 

It’s almost like a baptism. A fresh beginning. Kate Argent is dead and that means more to both of them than they can really begin to articulate. 

Stiles comes back up, wiping the water out of his eyes, and Derek is right there looking at him. He’s wet, hair a mess, tattoos glistening with water in the sunlight. 

“Do you really think we knew each other in a different timeline?” Derek asks him, genuine curiosity in his tone. “Or that we will know each other again, in the next one?” 

Stiles smiles. “That’s exactly what I think.” It is probably why his mother knew Derek Hale’s name, why she said she would have dreams about him, from time to time. It’s because she knew he wasn’t just some random werewolf, but he was the werewolf that shared the same blood as Stiles. The same everything. The same soul. It’s hard to explain, but now Stiles understands it. 

Derek splashes some water with his hand absentmindedly as he thinks that over, hemming and hawing. Maybe he’s imagining what other people they have been or will go on to be in the future. “Sounds like mumbo jumbo.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But it’s nice to think about, isn’t it? Like, when we die we don’t really die. Goodbye’s never forever. When we leave we always come back.” 

These are the kinds of things that would normally make Derek scoff or roll his eyes or accuse Stiles of being stupid. He’s not very much for romantic nonsense, especially not romantic nonsense that involves witchy bullshit. 

But he walks to Stiles in the water, so their chests are touching, and he gives Stiles a thin smile. “You’re a complete freak,” he says, very sincerely. “I want to fuck you until you can’t –“ 

Stiles splashes him in the face and he shuts up, sputtering water out of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s just the epilogue left 🥺


	6. I Told You So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write this even though the story was totally finished (save for one loose end) because I figured it’d be nice to get a feel for how their relationship will go on beyond the end of the story. Like, arguments and things like that lmfao

Derek makes an incredibly valiant effort of teaching Stiles how to drive. 

He drives them out onto backroads made of dirt where there’s no one around, with big curving turns that wrap around pockets of the forest and rocks that sometimes fall and get in the way of what little traffic there is. Then he puts Stiles in the driver’s seat and directs him on how the clutch works and what the purpose of the gear shift is – it’s all Greek to Stiles, who blinks owlishly at all the controls and feels like he’s operating a space ship. 

“You press the clutch down all the way,” Derek directs, and Stiles does, “and start the engine,” it comes to life with a purr, “hit the brake, get into first,” Stiles adjusts the transmission cautiously, like it’ll go up in flames the second he moves it, “take your foot off the brake –“ 

“Uh, but then it’s going to –“ 

“It’s not going to move,” Derek says very matter of fact, and gestures for Stiles to do as he says. Stiles does, like an old lady, and blessedly, the car does not take off into the trees as soon as he does so. “Okay. Now slowly let up on the clutch and hit the gas so it –“ 

The car dies. Stiles blinks. He doesn’t know what he did. 

“You let it go all the way,” Derek tells him. “Try again.” 

“Or, maybe we could do something else,” he suggests nervously. “Like watch paint dry or mix concrete.” 

“Why are you so afraid to drive?” He observes Stiles critically, up and down, cocking his head to the side. Ever since Stiles started seeing Derek’s wolf form, he can’t help from noticing the weird tics and mannerisms of his that come exclusively from that part of himself. Even when the wolf is subdued, it’s still there in him, and comes out in strange ways, when Stiles is paying attention enough to notice. 

“Uh,” he scoffs, gripping the wheel, “because it’s a giant machine that goes fast and can crash and kill us both.”

“Not me,” Derek smirks. “Try again.” 

“Do I have –“ 

“Yes.” 

Stiles sighs. But he goes through the entire rigamarole again, with the clutch and the transmission and the gas pedal. It’s a nightmare, because he kills it almost every time before he’s even managed to move half a foot – but eventually, he gets it right, and they’re moving. 

“Holy shit,” he says, white knuckling the steering wheel. 

“You’re going five miles an hour, relax.” 

“Holy shit,” he repeats, “what do I do?” 

“Keep accelerating as much as you can.”

“Uh…” he does, and he hates it. The car goes and he’s freaking out, turning the wheel to narrowly avoid hitting a rock in the middle of the road. 

“You need to switch into second.”

“That’s okay.”

“Take your foot off the gas and get on the clutch –“ 

Stiles shakily does, repeating the same steps as before, and the car lurches forward faster. He does not like it. He hastily releases both the gas and the clutch and kills it again, while Derek sighs in the passenger seat and leans back. The car slows to a stop and Stiles bites his lip, side eyeing Derek because he expects Derek will be angry. 

He isn’t. He seems quietly resigned, though. 

“Why do you want me to know how to drive so badly? I’m a witch, remember? I can just zap it to life, and –“ 

Derek grabs Stiles’ hand and stops him before he does exactly that, perhaps remembering the fiasco it was the last time Stiles enchanted his car and took it for a joy ride. “Because it’s a good skill to have.” 

“I have all the skills I need right here,” he waggles the fingers of his free hand and they glow green. Derek watches and his lips quirk, almost a smile but not quite. 

“Maybe,” he agrees, “but if there were ever another situation where you can’t use your magic…” 

“Unlikely.”

Derek gives him a look. “I saw you half fucking dead from something as idiotically commonplace as mistletoe. I’m not crazy about the idea of it happening again, but it might.”

He has a point. It’s not like witch kryptonites are particularly hard to find, after all. It someone wanted to harm him or at least harness his magic, they could do so fairly easily, especially if Derek were not around to help him. 

“So you want me to learn how to drive in case someone tries to kill me.” 

“Yes.” 

“You worry about me too much for your own good.” 

“I’d argue I worry about you just enough.” He leans back in the passenger seat and frowns at the sun in the sky through his sunglasses. 

“I would crash a car and die if I learned how to drive,” Stiles says very sincerely, because he firmly believes that. Something tells him intrinsically he’s not meant to operate heavy machinery. Call it intuition. Witches are all earth and water and air. No robots allowed. “Can I get out of the driver’s seat now?” 

Derek is still frowning. “It wouldn’t fucking kill you to humor me.” 

Stiles throws his hands up. “I just don’t understand what you think is going to –“ 

Abruptly, Derek is mad. Big mad. He takes his sunglasses off maybe just so he can look Stiles directly in the eyes and he shouts, “you’re being fucking stubborn. You are completely useless and helpless without your magic and you know it. If that happens and I’m not around, you need to know how to do basic fucking things like driving a god damn car so at least you can get away.” 

Stiles feels chastised. He purses his lips and stares out the windshield at the woods and the dirt road in front of him, picking absentmindedly at the leather on the steering wheel. He knows Derek is at least partially right – he is as good as a corpse without his magic, and it’s not that hard to find mistletoe or unicorn’s blood. If someone wanted to harm him, and apparently there are many who do, then they could. 

Knowing how to drive is helpful. It just seems idiotic to him. 

Derek puts his sunglasses back on. “Don’t get upset.” 

“You can’t just yell at me and then demand I not get upset,” he scoffs, shaking his head. 

“I’m yelling because you don’t fucking listen otherwise.” 

“Well, maybe I don’t listen because you’re being fucking paranoid.” 

“You’re god damn right I am!” He points to his chest, right near his heart. “Stiles, I had to pull you out of a fucking forest fire and I held your limp body in my arms. Don’t fucking make me do that shit again.” 

It’s quiet for a beat after that. Stiles is still mad, but he has no good retort or argument to respond with, so he stays silent and still, staring pointedly down at his hands in his lap. 

“Just –“ Derek thrusts his hands out and sighs, “…can you do as I say for once? Just one fucking time?” 

Stiles stays quiet and pissy. 

Derek huffs. “All right, fine. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t get to be all mad at me,” he accuses, turning to face him directly. Derek’s car is not very big, so when they’re looking at one another, they are only inches apart. “You have to be nice to me, remember? That’s part of being in a relationship.” 

What Derek actually knows about being in a relationship Stiles could likely fit in the palm of his hand. So far, he seems to think it’s all about fucking and sleeping together and…well that’s about it. He has no clue about the rules. And there are a lot of them. Especially for someone as notoriously fucking crazy as Stiles is. 

“…okay,” he says this from between grit teeth. “I’m sorry. Okay?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re being a crazy territorial werewolf who thinks the world is out to get me. I know you think you need to do everything possible to keep me from getting killed, but I’m fine. We’re fine. Just…relax.” 

Derek sucks in a deep breath, and then releases it, slow and steady. He’s been doing that a lot more lately – instead of going all wolf and chewing up the nearest thing he can find, he just sits there and breathes and forces himself to calm down. 

Anger has been his automatic reaction for so long. Being with Stiles, who is psycho and has been known to be an annoying little shit, has forced him to try and learn how to react differently. 

“I really don’t think I can drive,” he gestures to the car in its entirety. “It’s not in my DNA.” 

Derek stares at his shoes in the footwell. “I don’t like worrying about you all the god damn time.” 

Stiles smiles at him, because he can’t help himself. “That’s just sort of part of loving something.” 

They meet eyes. Derek is still upset, still mad that Stiles is refusing to learn to drive, but he keeps his cool. “Will you at least learn an automatic?”

Stiles nods. “I’ll try. How’s that?” 

“Fine,” he waves his hand and huffs. “You know you’re fucking infuriating, right?” 

“Yes,” he nods. “But you like it.”

Derek does not deny this.

**

Stiles agrees to get more tattoos, because he likes the idea enough to go through it. More so because Derek is very serious about it, deeply adamant that Stiles needs to get more, and Stiles has this sneaking suspicion it is only because he likes the idea of Stiles having tattoos. Like, he thinks it’s sexy.

It’s asinine and dog-brained, but Stiles is learning to roll with the punches. After all, Stiles had convinced Derek to stop fighting for a while; it may have been a compromise, wherein Stiles asked him to stop fighting altogether and Derek wanted to keep fighting forever, and they settled on Derek taking a hiatus for a couple of months. But Stiles has a suspicion that if he works his charms (not literally), then he can keep Derek from ever doing those idiotic nightmarish werewolf fights again. 

Point being, if Derek can stop fighting for Stiles, then Stiles can certainly get tattoos to please Derek’s weird fetish. 

He gets a pentagram on his forearm and a match on his hip, like he told Derek he would that day in the shower. Then he gets a raven on his back and an eye on the palm of his hand, and a bunch of symbols from ancient books that Derek claims he thinks are creepy, but Stiles still catches Derek running his fingers across the ink all soft and reverent, more absentmindedly than anything else. 

He gets them all in black. No color. Derek seems to like them, at least. He likes to touch them, run his fingers along them, squeeze his shoulder where the head of the raven sits on his back, lick his neck where he got a black moth. Who knows what Derek likes so much about tattoos? 

It really probably is just a fetish. There’s none he likes more than the one on Stiles’ thigh, after all. 

Stiles sneaks away one day to get one as a surprise for him – it’s hard to lie to Derek even about something as silly as his whereabouts because Derek can hear the trip in his heartbeat, but he manages to convince him he’s going to the cemetery to visit his parents’ graves. Perhaps the only reason Derek was willing to believe that so easily is because it was sort of a touchy subject. 

Stiles still hasn’t been to those graves. Truth be told, he may never be able to go. But that is a problem for the future. 

Either way, he buys himself a couple of hours to get the tattoo done without Derek even knowing where he is. 

He meets Derek at the bar when he’s finished, finding the man himself sitting there in his usual booth drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, and when he sees Stiles walk in he gestures for him to come over, which makes Stiles snort. Right. Like there’s anyone else in this fucking bar that Stiles would want to hang out with; they all eyeball him warily or refuse to even look at him at all out of fear of what Derek would do to them, most likely, but Stiles is learning to get used to it. 

It’s easy to get used to the invisible ball of protection that being Derek’s favorite person has afforded him. It’s like he’s got a _do not touch_ sign hanging around his neck. 

Derek looks him up and down as soon as Stiles is close enough to do so. There’s no hug or kiss or a proclamation that Derek missed him, because even in spite of telling Stiles he loves him almost every day, Derek Hale is still Derek Hale. He’s not touchy-feely, especially not in public. In private, Stiles can get Derek to kiss and hold his hand all day long, but never in front of other werewolves. 

He says it’s ‘showing his hand’. Whatever the fuck that means. Stiles thinks he’s just secretly embarrassed about being romantic in front of the other guys. 

“You all right? I smell blood.” 

Stiles smiles at him with all his teeth, nodding his head. “I got something for you.” 

Derek puts his cigarette out in the ash tray, raising his eyebrows as though he’s surprised to hear this. 

Stiles wastes no time. He pulls up his shirt to reveal his ribs, where on his left side he’s gotten a big black wolf, all furry and intense looking with all the right details. While the rest of his tattoos are colorless and dark, this is the only one where he will ever spring for just a little bit of color –some blue, in the wolf’s eyes. Bright, bright blue. 

Derek stares at it, eyes tracing over it again and again as though he’s making sure it’s seriously there. He meets Stiles’ gaze. “You’re kidding.” 

“Do you like it?” 

“Of course I like it,” he laughs. “It’s just…funny.” 

Stiles furrows his brow, dropping his shirt down. “…I wasn’t really going for funny.” 

“No, no, it’s just…” he stands, pulling his own shirt up to reveal that with his free time, he also went out and got another tattoo. This one is a pentagram, nearly in the exact same spot that Stiles got his big wolf. Stiles knows he went and got it today because he was looking at Derek’s bare chest just this morning, and this thing was not there earlier, he definitely would have noticed. 

“You’re kidding,” Stiles repeats back to him, shaking his head in awe. “In the exact same spot? What, did you read my mind?” 

Derek shrugs. The pentagram is situated between the big yellow lemon and a pack of trees on his abdomen, so it looks a bit out of place, but Stiles still likes it, because it being out of place is yet another homage to Stiles anyway. It’s identical to the one Stiles has on his forearm, if not a little bit bigger, but it means something different being on Derek’s skin. It means the same thing that Stiles’ wolf means. 

These semi-matching tattoos are likely the closest thing the two of them will ever get to wedding rings. 

“Now do you believe that we’re linked? In the cosmic sense?” 

Derek smiles. “I believe that I didn’t have any other place to put it. It’s a coincidence that they’re in the same place.” 

“And that we got them on the same day?” 

Derek sits back down in the booth and gestures for Stiles to do the same. “It’s all one big coincidence.” 

It isn’t. And Derek knows it isn’t. Stiles can tell.

**

Derek is hunched over the kitchen table one morning, no shirt on, down to just his underwear, viciously eating a bowl of Lucky Charms. Now that he goes grocery shopping with Stiles once a week, his cabinets are full of random shit like that – he has cheez-its and bags of candy and teddy grahams and fruity pebbles. These are all things that he looks ridiculous consuming but that he does consume nonetheless because his stomach is a bottomless pit. He eats and he eats and then eats some more and, for good measure, eats more.

It used to gross Stiles out, but now, it’s one of his weird little wolf quirks that Stiles is growing fond of. Truth be told, Stiles is beginning to grow fond of every single thing that Derek does. Even the werewolf nonsense, like when Derek came home from a run and dropped a dead squirrel at Stiles’ feet. 

He had to plaster a smile on his face and offer thanks and act like it was a really good gift. The second Derek was dead asleep after sex, Stiles used a stick to remove it from the house. But still, it was nice of him, and it made Stiles laugh in retrospect. 

He hears Stiles coming in from the other room and he sits up, wiping pink milk off his face with the back of his hand. “You slept late today,” he comments. 

Stiles hovers in the doorway, clutching a big black book against his chest. Typically, they get up together and make breakfast and then eat it while watching a movie – this morning when Derek awoke to find Stiles still snoring, he apparently decided to just let him keep sleeping and went for a quick breakfast instead. 

“Come sit with me, baby,” he gestures, so Stiles lurches forward and takes the empty seat next to Derek. He scoots the chair in with a loud scraping noise on the linoleum, and Derek says, “you want some cereal?” 

“No thanks.” 

He’s still clutching his black book. Derek notices, spooning up another big bite. Before he eats it he says, “what’s all that?” Then he shoves the spoon into his mouth, chewing loudly with his mouth open. 

Stiles clears his throat. He sets the book down on the table, and it’s heavy, so it makes a big thumping noise. Derek looks at it, maybe noticing that it’s not one of the few books that Stiles had pulled out of the fire at his apartment, then to Stiles’ face. “I was up late reading,” he begins, gently pulling open the front cover. “Um….” 

“Is everything okay?” He reaches out and does one of his small gestures; pinching Stiles’ chin between his thumb and forefinger for just a second, and Stiles leans into the touch almost subconsciously. “You seem upset. That’s a new book.” 

“No, not upset,” his voice is hoarse, because he really was up late, so he clears his throat a second time. “It is a new book. I special ordered it.” It turns out, there is an entire network on the internet of witches and like minded people that hunt for magic books. Witches die all the time, sometimes murdered or sometimes of old age, and whatever books or trinkets that don’t get burned or stolen get harvested by other witches who either keep them or sell them. 

Stiles is working on rebuilding his collection, so he lurks witch forums like a ghoul, waiting for books to go up for sale. Derek throws money at Stiles like it’s nothing, for any number of ridiculously expensive purchases; but all Stiles really wants is books. It’s all he’s used Derek’s enormous fortune for. No big house, no fancy car, no fancy anything. Just his beloved books. 

Derek blinks at him. 

“Just…I kinda have to share something with you.” 

“Okay.” He waits, expectantly, slurping up the last of his milk. 

“Well. So. I figured your curse left a mark on your skin, but I didn’t know what it was until – well – until I found it and saw it for myself,” he turns some pages in his book as he talks, while Derek continues to drink milk. “And then I knew it looked familiar at the time? Like, I had seen it before. The shape of the curse. Its coloration. It turns out I _had_ seen it before. In a book,” he turns a final page and pushes the book at Derek, so he can look for himself. “This book. One of its many translations, at least.” 

There it is. The exact shape and color of the mark the curse left behind on Derek’s skin. Derek looks at it, and swallows what he has in his mouth. “Yup, there it is.” 

Clearly he doesn’t get what Stiles is saying, here, or the gravity of the situation. He sits up straighter and points to the text written beside the page. “I mean, what I’m saying is, because I found the exact curse she used, I know how to reverse it. The curse. It’s actually fairly simple. There’s some tough ingredients I’ll have to get, but other than that, I can –“ 

“What do you mean?” Derek interrupts, furrowing his brow. 

Stiles stares at him. “I mean, I can cure you.” 

They share eye contact. Derek has the most impossible to read expression on his face, almost like he’s still confused in spite of the fact that Stiles is being crystal clear with him. He pushes his empty bowl away and the spoon clinks against the porcelain as it goes, and then Derek is focusing all of his attention on Stiles. “Cure me.” 

“So you won’t be invincible anymore. Right? That’s what you want?” 

Derek does not look happy to hear this. Stiles figured he’d be as elated as he could be, to finally be rid of the shitty little curse that Kate Argent had left on him – but he just sits and stares, scowling, his brow furrowed. 

Stiles rubs the back of his head. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

“It is what I wanted,” he says slowly, like he’s picking his words very carefully. “Back when I wanted to die all the time.” 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that statement. It hangs there between them, heavy, but neither of them say anything else for a second or so. 

“I don’t want to die anymore,” he says very matter-of-fact, and Stiles shakes his head. 

“But the curse is unnatural. It’s not about whether you’re suicidal or not, it’s –“ 

“I mean, I _want_ to be unkillable, by my hand or anyone else’s.” 

Oh. Stiles rubs at his jaw. This is coming out of left field. The last time they had spoken at length about this curse, Derek had spoken of it like it was the worst thing that ever happened to him – Stiles thought it would be a gift, or at least a big favor or a romantic gesture, to reverse the curse for him. 

At great cost to himself. Frankly, Stiles likes that Derek is semi-invincible. It makes him worry about the guy ten times less than he normally would. But he knew it would be selfish of him to hoard the information and do nothing with it, so he swallowed his own feelings about it and did the research and found the cure. 

“Now, I have something to live for,” he shrugs, like it’s that simple. 

Stiles fingers along the edges of the book. “You mean me…?” 

Derek actually smiles. All teeth, white and shiny and perfectly straight. “Yes, dumbass. You. Not being able to be killed means I can protect you. I never saw it that way before because I never had anything to protect. Now, I do. I see the value in it.” 

The value. Stiles could laugh out loud, because Kate had intended for this to be a scourge on Derek’s life. She meant for it to be suffering and pain, for an entire wolf’s lifetime, which can sometimes be up to four hundred years, if what Stiles has read is to be believed. She wanted him to roam the earth for hundreds of years, in pain, miserable, and alone. 

She was not counting on Stiles coming along. 

“So, you don’t want me to…?” He points to the book, and Derek shakes his head. Stiles puffs his lips out. “This book cost you two thousand dollars, and now we’re not even going to use it.” 

Derek waves his hand, like he could not care less about that. “It’s part of your collection.” 

Stiles closes it, and he nods his head. He’s only got ten books so far, but if he keeps going at the rate he is, he could have a hundred in just a few years. It’ll come in handy at some point, maybe, for some other reason. Some day. 

After all, Stiles and Derek could very well be together for the rest of their earthly lives. That’s at least a hundred years. Two hundred, most likely. Three hundred, if they’re lucky. Who knows what other kinds of trouble they’re liable to face in the future? The possibilities are endless, especially for two people as odious as they are to the rest of the world. 

Stiles presses his chin in his palms and smirks at Derek, eyeballing him hard. “You love me so bad you don’t even wanna die anymore. How romantic.” 

Derek makes a face at him. “Don’t let it get to your head.” 

“Oh, it’s gotten there,” he taps his temple with his index finger. “It’s all I think about. I don’t really wanna die anymore, either.” 

“Did the lines on your palm change?” He cocks his head to the side and grabs one of Stiles’ hands by the wrist, pulling it over the table palm up so he can look for himself. He runs his index finger along the ridges and lines, but of course to him, it means absolutely nothing. 

“Not at all, actually, that’s the weird part. See here, it’s my fate line,” he shows Derek with his own finger, tracing over it, “and I always thought it was telling me I’m fated for death and ultimately hell. I think it means something else.” 

“Like what?” 

He shakes his head. “Like, death is my destiny. Not my own death, but just…death. Does that make sense?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Like my mission in life. My purpose. I always thought doing dark magic was evil and wrong and that I was bad for doing that…” he trails off and looks out Derek’s kitchen window; where the forest sits, dark, deep, full of secrets. “Maybe it’s what I was made for. It’s how I serve the world.” 

Derek seems pensive. He mulls that over for a moment and strokes Stiles’ palm gently, observing all the harsh lines for himself. “You think we’ll go to hell?” 

“Actually, no,” he laughs, careless. “I think we’re going to die and then immediately be reincarnated, again and again.” 

“Uh, yeah right.” He doesn’t believe in things like that. Though, he used to barely believe in fortunes or magic, and look at him now. 

Stiles shrugs. “I think the universe has decided to throw us a bone, after all our pain.” 

So, so much pain. The edges of themselves lining up together perfectly, all of the things they have endured; the suffering created holes in each of them that only the other could ever fill. Stiles believes that they were fated to be together, and he believes every time he pulled the black dog out of his tarot deck alongside the rotting apple and the bloody hand, that is what it meant. 

The black dog has always been Derek, and the bloody hand has always been their shared suffering, and the rotting apple has always been the immortality of their dispositions. Rotting because they are sort of rotten, aren’t they? It’s funny to think about, how Stiles misread all the signs his entire life, only because he didn’t think himself worthy of something as pure as everlasting love. 

Yet, the universe gave it to him anyway. 

“I love you, Stiles,” Derek tells him, “but you’re crazy.” 

In time, Derek will see that Stiles is right. They’re going to live and live again and live again and Stiles will say _I told you so_ every single time, for the rest of eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss them already 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺


End file.
